


Academia

by herstorian3518



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Action, Adventure, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5750275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herstorian3518/pseuds/herstorian3518
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of the second film, Sherlock Holmes has returned to Baker Street after his final fight with Professor Moriarty. Watson is living with Mary and Holmes is looking for entertainment. Catherine Keaton is a young woman from Texas visiting London who, through a turn of events, ends up living in Watson's old quarters and becomes swept up in Holmes' attempts at recruiting a new "assistant." Catherine finds Holmes a tough nut to crack, but discovers she is more than up to the challenge, to their mutual surprise. Learn how one lost and troubled young woman discovers inner strength, courage, and passion she never dreamed she possessed, and how she helps to heal a brilliant, wise, yet lonely fractured soul.<br/>~Not to toot my own horn, but I have been told by people who do not like OC stories that mine was an exception to the average 'Mary Sue'. Take a look for yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pleasantries

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of the original Sherlock Holmes publications belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own any version of Sherlock Holmes or any of the characters portrayed in the Sherlock Holmes films featuring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law, directed by Guy Richie, and produced by Warner Bros. studios.

Pleasantries

I stepped off the ship with wobbly legs. My ‘sea legs’ left something to be desired. I spent the entire trek from Galveston, Texas to London, England cooped up in my cabin, unable to venture far from the toilet. It will be worth it, I told myself, I’m getting to travel the world. 

London lay before me, smoggy and bustling with life. It was already very different from small town Texas, and this was only the port. 

Mrs. Hudson was there to receive me at the London pier. She broke the news to me about the change in plans in the carriage ride to Baker Street.   
“I’m sorry to say Miss Keaton that I received a letter from your Uncle Ian saying that he’s been called to India on short notice. He asked if you may stay with me as one of my tenants until he returns, which might not be for several months.” Of course. What did I expect? Things never went according to plan, not where I was concerned.  
I did not really have the energy to be surprised or disappointed. My lack of sleep began to weigh heavily on me, and I attempted to tuck a long strand of brown wavy hair back into its bun.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I’d never want to be a burden to you Mrs. Hudson.” I felt exhausted as I looked at her stern face. The trip across the Atlantic and the swaying of the ship had made me ill, and the jostling of the carriage did not help matters.  
“Oh, not to worry dear. I have just the place for you. Your Uncle has arranged to pay for your room and board; I just have one simple task to ask of you.” She tugged on her gloves, not looking me in the eye.  
“Of course, I would be happy to help you in any way.” I had no idea at that moment what she had planned for me.

Upon arriving at 221 B Baker Street, I noticed an odd flash coming from the upstairs window. It was like there was lightening coming from inside the room.  
“Oh Mrs. Hudson! There is a strange light coming from the upstairs window! I think the room might be on fire!” My heart began to pound as I turned and tugged on her arm. She simply paid the cabby and said, “Oh no dear, that’s just Mr. Holmes.” She sighed deeply, as though the knowledge disturbed her, and ushered me through the door.   
“Do you mean, Sherlock Holmes? The detective?” I knew who he was, he was world famous. My best friend William had always followed news about him in the papers and read stories about his exploits to me.  
“Unfortunately, yes.”

The entryway was small, with a parlor off to the left, and a hallway straight ahead. She led me up the stairs immediately saying, “I’ll show you your room first so that you may get settled.” I smelled something burning, but since Mrs. Hudson did not seem alarmed, I saw no reason as to why I should be. I heard a loud noise, but could not place what I thought it was. Mrs. Hudson did not bat an eye, so I simply followed her example. Maybe the neighbors were woodworkers or something.

We reached the first landing, and the stairs wound upward toward the third floor. “This will be your room dear,” she led me in through the door on the left and I stopped abruptly.  
“Mrs. Hudson, I’m afraid I don’t understand. I thought you meant for me to have my own room.” My stomach sank through my feet. I had only ever shared a room with my sister. The room she showed me was littered with books and papers, chairs and shelves. Writing in ink and paint covered the walls, along with hundreds of small pictures and newspaper articles. Strangely enough, there was no bed, but there was a door in the wall, presumably to the room next door. They must have been connected at one point.  
“No, this will be your room. It will be lovely once we tidy up. There are a few, uh, things that have been stored here. Nothing to worry about.” She stepped over stacks of boxes and books, a forced smile on her face. “We shall go today and fetch you some furniture. A fresh coat of paint and it will be as good as new.” She tried to give me a reassuring smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Suddenly, the door to the next room swung open, and smoke came billowing through. Mrs. Hudson and I began coughing and waving our hands in the air. Thick grey smoke filled the room, blurring our vision. I stepped forward and tripped on something, tumbling to the floor. I couldn’t find my bearings in this smog.  
A voice emanated from the doorway, echoing, like a demon’s voice from a pit, “What are you up to Nanny?” The sound of the man’s voice sent shivers down my spine. We were still blinded by the smoke, and I sat crumpled on the floor, waiting for it to clear. My eyes watered and it became hard to breathe. The more I struggled, the more I became entangled in the debris.

“I see you are hard at work destroying my establishment Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson coughed. Somehow, she made it to the window and opened it. I knew this because as the smoke began blowing out the newly opened window, two forms became visible. Hers, and another silhouette, presumably that of a man judging by the voice.  
Once the smoke cleared somewhat and I could see the man more clearly, the first thing I noticed was how he was dressed. He wore a welder’s goggles and apron; dirt and grit covered his face. I could not really discern any of his features; his entire person just looked grey.   
He spoke again, “What are you doing in my study, Nanny?”  
“I am showing Miss Keaton her new room.”  
“How can it be her room if it is my study?”  
“It is your study no longer. Once you stopped paying the rent for two rooms this became open for tenants.” By this time the smoke had all but cleared the room, and I got a better look at everything.

The man was shorter than my brothers were, less than six feet; and I could tell he had dark hair. Beyond that, I had no clue. I had become immersed in a sea of papers and string. Dust covered everything in a fine layer. If cleaning up the room had seemed difficult before, it was going to be nearly impossible now.  
The man looked in my direction, how he could see anything through his filthy goggles was unfathomable, and stalked over to me, carefully dodging the litter covering the floor.  
“I object to this intrusion. I paid the rent last month.”  
“With a check from Dr. Watson’s bank account, that is now closed. If he didn’t know you still had his checkbook, he does now.” Mrs. Hudson began wafting smoke out the window with a newspaper.

I watched this exchange from the floor. The instant I began to try and get up, I disturbed the dust and the air became cloudy once again. I coughed and sputtered, clambering up despite the layers of dust and clutter. Once I had escaped from the spiders web of string, I stood wheezing, dust falling around me as though it was ash from a volcano. This man’s sudden appearance was volcanic if it was anything.  
“You must be Mr. Holmes,” I held out my hand to shake his and he just looked at it, as though it were a disappointing result of an experiment.  
“I don’t,” was all he said, and his disdainful stare was broken by my suddenly rapid succession of sneezes.   
Mrs. Hudson continued as if he had not spoken. “You have one hour to remove your things. Anything that remains will be thrown out into the street.” She strode over the junk pile, took me by the elbow, and escorted me out of the room. I looked back in time to see the man huff back into his lair, slamming the door behind him.  
That was my first encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

By the time Mrs. Hudson and I had cleaned up, and returned from running our errands, all of the debris had been cleared from my room. All that remained was the dust. I had never seen so much dust in my life.  
Mrs. Hudson had to call in reinforcements, and I met Maggie, the house-maid. It took the three of us three days to sweep, mop, and paint the walls. The cabinets took an especially long time to paint; I never wanted to paint again in my lifetime. While the paint dried, I shared a room with Maggie on the third floor and learned more about her life than I knew about most people close to me. By the time the paint had dried, Mrs. Hudson and I had procured some modest furniture with my Uncle Ian’s allowance, and I was allowed back in ‘my’ room, formally known as Mr. Holmes’s study.

I moved into my room with trepidation. At any moment, I expected my neighbor to come barging in, demanding I relinquish his territory. I couldn’t help the thought that I was invading his space, but Mrs. Hudson was the land-lady, and what she said went.   
“Dear, he would take over the entire building if I let him.”  
During the time we were cleaning, I did not see him once. I felt relieved, afraid every encounter with him might be as theatrical as our ‘introduction’. He seemed a bit of a recluse, and when I asked if Mrs. Hudson ever saw him leave his room, she said,  
“I see the evidence of his excursions outside his room by the broken dishes and stains in the carpet. He’s much like a rat, you rarely see him but you know he’s there by the mess he leaves.”

I wrote to my family to let them know about the change in plans, and Uncle Ian informing him of my arrival. Within the first week of living on Baker Street, I had carved out my niche in Holmes’ kingdom. I soon found out I would have to defend my right to occupy this space often, and the first occurrence of his defensive attitude toward my presence happened the morning after I had ‘moved in’. 

As I sat down to breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, she brought up the task she had referred to on our carriage ride.  
“Miss Keaton, I have a request to make of you.” She kindly poured me a cup of tea, and I had a sudden feeling of dread.  
“Yes Mrs. Hudson? And do please call me Catherine.” I tried to sound as calm as I could. What could she possibly ask of me that would be so terrible? I was overreacting.  
“As per my agreement with your Uncle, your room and board is covered by his monthly stipend, but we agreed that there are a few small tasks you could do to ‘help around the house’ as it were.”  
“Yes mam; please let me know anything I can do to help you. You’ve been so kind to let me stay here.” A sense of foreboding settled over me. My hand shook as I placed my fork back on the plate.  
“Well, Catherine,” she paused, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, “Maggie and I have chores to attend to. She does the washing and cleaning, Mrs. Gosling does the cooking, I oversee the household and handle the finances. But, I have thought of a job for you.”  
Please let it be cleaning the toilet. Please, please please…  
“I think I shall have you look after Mr. Holmes.” ….what?  
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” I really didn’t. What did she mean ‘look after’? Did he need a caretaker or something? He seemed able bodied when I met him.  
“Well, it’s very simple really. All I need you to do is bring him his meals, mend his clothes, pick up his laundry, tidy up his room occasionally, and maybe make his tea. Nothing too strenuous, I assure you.” She glanced up at me from behind her teacup. I sensed a hidden agenda, but what could I do? She was providing me with a place to stay and food. She didn’t have to let me stay here, even if my Uncle paid her. She could send me back to Texas anytime she wished.  
“O-of course. That should be no trouble at all. I would be delighted.” Oh good lord, what had I gotten myself into? I might wish I was back in Texas when Holmes was finished with me.  
“Wonderful.” She spoke louder, “Mrs. Gosling, would you mind bringing in the tray?” It seemed like Mrs. Gosling was just waiting for her cue, because she immediately stepped in the room from the entrance to the kitchen with a tray of food.  
“Oh, you mean, I should take him food right now?” Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I had not even had time to prepare myself; to put on armor, or fetch a gun, or anything.  
“Yes, that would be most helpful.” Mrs. Gosling moved to stand next to me, tray in hand. I rose from my unfinished plate, I could not eat anymore even if I tried, and took the tray from her hand. The china trembled as I took hold.  
“Good luck dearie,” was Mrs. Gosling’s whispered blessing as I approached the stairs. The last thing I saw before I ascended was the look exchanged between the two women. It was a mix of apprehension and relief.

I took extra time climbing the stairs. I told myself it was to keep the tea from spilling. Once I reached his door, I stood there for a few moments, unsure of my next move. Should I knock? Do I just leave the tray outside the door? Do I just knock and run?  
Before I had time to decide, the door was wrenched open, and Sherlock Holmes stood in front of me. At least, that is who I thought it was. I had not really gotten a good look at him during our first meeting.

“Can I help you?” He drawled, bored already and I had not even spoken. Once I finally saw him, I felt underwhelmed. He was a man of medium height, as I had first witnessed, wearing a frayed dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. His black hair was disheveled, his beard unshaven, his robe was tattered, and his feet were bare. What finally caught me were his eyes. He had large dark eyes, a straight nose, and a strong chin. I blushed without really knowing why. Probably from embarrassment, possibly from his strange appearance, more than likely it was from the way he looked at me. His gaze was unnerving, cold and calculating, taking in everything he saw.  
“Um, breakfast,” was my reply. I moved the tray toward him, and he drew back, appalled.   
“So they’ve sent you into the lion’s den have they? Draw the short straw?” He said it so flatly, it took me a moment to understand that he was being sarcastic.  
“Um, it’s my job now.” Brilliant, just….brilliant.   
“How am I supposed to eat it with you holding it in the hallway?” How is it that he hardly blinked?  
“You could take the tray.”  
“Oh no. I don’t.” He didn’t move an inch. “Obviously you’ve never served breakfast before.”  
“What do you do?” I thoroughly surprised myself with my cheek.  
“I’m terribly good at slamming doors.” He shut the door in my face so abruptly, I drew back. The exchange took place so quickly; I hardly had time to realize what just happened. Once I came back to my senses, I felt both offended and relieved. How dare he shut the door in my face? But it could’ve been so much worse… said a small voice in my head.  
Unsure about what to do with the food, I contemplated leaving it in front of his door. I bent down to lay the tray on the floor, but before I could set it down, a voice called out from inside the room, “Don’t bother.”   
I swayed, my balance upset by his sudden reaction. What, could he see through wood? How on earth did he know…?  
Just leave, said the same logical voice as before. Very well. If he wanted to eat he would have to come and get it himself. I had fulfilled my duty, I had brought him his tray. The deed was done.

If our first encounter was any indication, taking him his trays would be easier than I thought. All I had to do was take it up and come back down. Our next real conversation would incur a more ‘heated’ reaction from me.


	2. Mysteries After Midnight

Chapter 2  
Mysteries after Midnight

Our third meeting was quite a bit more elaborate than our first or second. During the second week of my stay; I had been bringing Holmes his trays for a few days with no apparent success, I was awake in the middle of the night. I sat up, writing a letter to my sister, when there was a rapid succession of knocks at my door. At two in the morning, there was only one possibility of who it could be, but before I could even say ‘Come in,’ an obviously harried Sherlock Holmes swung open my door.

“Miss uh-ah-” and he snapped his fingers, pointing at me. I let him suffer for a moment before I relieved him from his misery.  
“Keaton.”  
“Yes, Keaton. Bring tea and biscuits for three. I’m expecting guests.”  
I stared in surprise. “I beg your pardon? Why can’t you get it?” What was he on about? It was two in the morning.  
“I thought it was your ‘job now’ to fetch me things. Make yourself presentable and serve the tea, post haste.”  
“Did you even consider that I might be asleep? What would you have done then?”  
“I would have woken you up. Now, off with you!” He shut the door and I heard him stomp back to his room. He was serious.

I suddenly felt very anxious. I had never ‘prepared tea’ before on such short notice. How did they even take their tea?

I sat for a moment, collecting myself. Do I get dressed? What - ?  
A knock resounded from the other side of the door to Holmes’ room, “Come along woman!” Oh dear.

I stood up, wrapped the only shawl I owned around my shoulders, and descended to the kitchen in my robe and slippers. I did the best I could; I put a pot of tea on to boil, placed the cups and saucers, and foraged for a few cookies from the cupboard. While the tea was heating up, the bell that indicated someone was at the door rang. Uh oh, that was fast. 

I raced up the basement stairs to the hallway. I could not believe I was about to answer the door to two strange men in my nightclothes. This was ridiculous. “Coming!” I shouted as I approached the door.

I swung open the door to see two men, one dressed as a police officer and the other in plainclothes. One was significantly taller than the other, and they both had facial hair of some sort. They looked at me in slight surprise, not expecting either me or my appearance.

“Good evening gentlemen. I believe Mr. Holmes is expecting you. I’m Catherine Keaton, I moved in to Dr. Watson’s old residence.” I reached my hand forward in genial welcome, despite my frayed nerves.

“Lovely to meet you madam. I am Officer Clark, and this is,” the taller mustached policeman gestured to the shorter man in a bowler hat.  
“Inspector Lestrade mum. May we come in?”  
“Oh yes, of course.” I stood aside to allow them entry. They immediately began climbing the stairs to Holmes’ room.  
“Excuse us madam.” Officer Clark tipped his hat to me as they ascended.

Once the men went upstairs, I returned to the kitchen where the teapot was whistling and about to boil over. I considered taking two trips; I had never been very good at carrying trays of breakable things up staircases. No, that would be ridiculous. I had to do this in one trip. I piled the dishes and tea onto the largest tray I could find, and began the long, slow trek upstairs. About halfway up I realized I had forgotten the spoons and the sugar, and my confidence wavered. Ugh, I was just not cut out for servants' work, I got flustered too easily. I surely did not have the dexterity that Mrs. Hudson and Maggie demonstrated with a tray full of china.

The tray was so heavy, I knocked with the toe of my slipper at Holmes’ door. I heard “It’s about time” and maneuvered the tray to open the door with a free hand. Of course he was not about to help me. I stepped in, the china rattling on the tray in my trembling hands. The three men stood in the middle of the room talking. I was suddenly at a loss. Where do I put the tray? Do I serve them?

“Um, Mr. Holmes, where would you like - ?”

Holmes gestured without looking at me to a tiny table in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace, “Over there.”

I slowly made my way to the table and had just set the tray down when,  
“Miss Keaton.”  
“Y-yes?”  
“Have you ever served tea before?”  
“No sir.”  
“I thought as much. Where’s the sugar?”  
“In the kitchen.”  
“And how may we use it when it is still in the kitchen?” I grew irritated, why was he being so rude?  
“Once I go down and get it you may use it just fine.” I added, my voice biting with sarcasm, “In the mean time, why don’t you use your finger to stir it, as you are just so sweet yourself?”

This caught the attention of the other two men, and they glanced in my direction. I flushed, and attempted to brush past them and out the door to fetch the remaining utensils when Holmes asked, “What do you know of Rodney Ashcroft?”

This question caught me off guard. I turned around to be sure he was addressing me. “You’re asking me?”  
“I should say so, I’m looking at you aren’t I?”  
“How would you think I know anything about Rodney Ashcroft?”  
He sighed in irritation, “Do you know of him or don’t you?”

I paused, trying to collect my senses. “I know of ‘a’ Rodney Ashcroft. He’s a cattle baron down in Texas. He’s one of the wealthiest men in the state. The father of a friend of mine does business with him.”

“And the name of this friend and their father?”

“William Gutierrez, his father is Ignacio Gutierrez.”

Inspector Lestrade spoke up, “That Gutierrez fellow sounds familiar. Doesn’t he do business in Mexico?”

“Yes, he owns silver mines in Mexico and ranches all over Texas.”

The three men looked at each other, and then back at me.

Holmes said, “Tell us everything you know about Rodney Ashcroft and his relationship with Ignacio Gutierrez.”

I stared in surprise, why would they be interested in what I knew? 

“Does this have something to do with an investigation?”

“It might, now if you would just tell us what you know, that would be of the utmost help.” Holmes blinked at me with impatience.

“Well," I began, "my father actually owns a ranch in South Texas - that’s how I first heard of Rodney Ashcroft. He tried everything he could to buy my father’s land from him so that he would have a clear path to drive cattle down to Mexico. My father refused to do business with him, but when William came to us on behalf of Ignacio, asking us to do business with them instead of Ashcroft, my father relented. William arranged for his father to rent land from my father to drive the cattle across our land, instead of trying to purchase it directly as Ashcroft had. We found out later that Ignacio Gutierrez and Ashcroft were working together, but in reality, it was the best arrangement for us. My family was afraid of what might happen if we angered Rodney Ashcroft. He’s been known to harass those smaller ranchers and farmers who have ever stood in his way.”

Holmes’s gaze was far away, “Excellent. What else?”

“Well, I only know as much else as anyone in Texas knows. He’s always in the papers; news about his recent purchases, maybe gossip about his wife or son. I know he left his wife for his mistress about a year ago. That’s about all.”

“What was the name of his former mistress?”

“Louisa, Louisa…Alvarez I think. She was married to a businessman by the name of Emilio Alvarez before he died.” Who would have thought that knowing a little about Texas gossip would pay off in London, England?

The three men seemed to be hanging on my every word. “What’s going on? Why do you want to know about Rodney Ashcroft?”

“I’m afraid, madam, that - ” began Inspector Lestrade, but before he could dismiss me Holmes interjected,

“Because Rodney Ashcroft was found murdered in his hotel room here in London two hours ago.”

I gasped, and stepped backward. “Rodney Ashcroft has been murdered??”

Officer Clark stepped in, “Please madam, keep this to yourself. It will reach the papers by tomorrow but we are trying to keep the details away from the press.”

“Of, of course. Is there…is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Not at the moment, I believe we have enough to run with at present, right Lestrade?” Holmes turned to a slightly perturbed looking Inspector.

“Certainly. Thank you madam, you’ve been most helpful.” The Inspector and Officer Clark rose to leave, nodding and saying parting words to Holmes.

I stood back as the two men left the room, my mind whirling. Rodney Ashcroft was dead. How did Holmes know that I would know who he was or that I had information that would help them? I must write to William about this.

Once Holmes closed the door behind the two visitors, he turned to me. “Well, you are off the hook about the sugar this time.”  
I ignored him. “How did you know I would know anything about Rodney Ashcroft? How could you know that? We’ve hardly even spoken.”

“Call it a hunch.”  
I went on; I knew more about him than he thought. “You don’t make hunches. You’re a detective; you must have evidence to make deductions, so you found something that told you I would know who Rodney Ashcroft was.” He looked at me blankly, striding over to the table with his hands behind his back.

I gasped as the realization hit me, “Good lord, you’ve been reading my mail, haven’t you?”  
“I might’ve glanced at it on occasion.”  
“Why you…you squirrelly little man! How dare you read my mail? That is an invasion of my privacy, and might I add, most likely illegal.”  
“It’s not, not yet.” He sat down to tea, drinking it black.  
I was fuming. But, how do you react when a complete stranger who also happens to live next door tells you they’ve read your mail? I wanted to thrash him, but knew that would only either amuse him or get me into trouble.  
All he had to do was look at the addresses on the letters I posted. I had written to my Uncle, my sister, my mother, and my friend William. William’s name might have caught his attention. He would’ve known my family owned a ranch by reading the letters to my mother and sister. He knew I was from Texas.

“I cannot believe this. You’ve been reading my mail. What else have you done? Looked through my clothes? Rummaged through my personal belongings?” I crossed my arms in front of me. The absolute gall of this man.  
“No, I haven’t.” The ‘not yet’ hung in the air, unsaid.  
“Who do you think you are?” I asked with incredulity.  
“It was simply part of an investigative mission. Do contain yourself madam.” He sipped his tea in nonchalance. I bristled at his incredible lack of tact.  
“No it wasn’t! The man was just killed tonight; you’ve been reading my mail for the past week, before the murder!” I waved my hands in the air, still reeling from his actions. I was a very private person. How dare this man invade my privacy in this manner? And not even portray an ounce of guilt?

“It was a mere coincidence, a coincidence that worked in my favor. You should be grateful; you might’ve been able to break a very difficult case.”  
“Swear to me you will no longer read my mail.” I pointed at him, my voice growing sharp.  
“It’s rude to point.” He looked at me with wide, seemingly innocent eyes.  
“And it’s not to read another person’s private correspondence?”  
“I never said it wasn’t”  
“Stop avoiding the topic. Promise me you will respect my privacy and no longer read my mail.” I raised my voice. I never thought I would need to yell at a man who was practically a stranger for reading my mail.  
“Fine, I promise,”  
“Good.” I was satisfied, and released the breath I had not realized I was holding.  
“-until the occasion calls for it” he quickly mumbled into his teacup. He continued sipping his tea. I’m sure my eyes nearly bugged out of my head. My pulse shot up once more.

“What?! Why would the occasion ever call for it?” My voice reached the high pitch reserved for total and complete disbelief.  
“Madam, you are asking me to predict the future. You are being entirely unreasonable.” He placed the cup in it's saucer and rose to stride about the room.  
I sputtered, “You, you-” I was at a loss for words. My cheeks burned with indignation.  
He just looked at me, picking up his violin and plucking it with his fingers. I was at a loss.

“Forget it,” I was exasperated, “I’m trying to reason with a madman, I can easily see that. Fine, go ahead with your rude, invasive, bull-headed behavior, but remember this,” I stepped forward, using my finger to exact my point once more. I used the tone of voice that was known among my friends and family as reserved only for small children, rambunctious animals; and now Sherlock Holmes.  
“Remember that this invasion of privacy works both ways,” he raised an eyebrow at me.  
“Oh yes, it’s a two-way street mister. If nothing of mine is sacred, nothing of yours is either. Consider yourself warned.” I saw something flash behind his eyes, was it amusement? Intrigue? I had challenged him, and I had the feeling very few people ever did that. A sense of foreboding settled in my stomach. It was too late now, the line was drawn.

“I’m done for the night. Clean the dishes up yourself.” I turned around to leave, stalking towards the door. I had just exited when he added, “Do remember the sugar next time Miss Keaton.”  
In my infinite wisdom I muttered, “You remember the sugar,” under my breath, slamming the door behind me. I shuddered at the sudden noise, and decided if either Mrs. Hudson or Maggie asked about the ruckus tomorrow I would simply blame it on Holmes. It was his fault anyway.

I did not get to sleep until sunrise. Maggie had to come and wake me.  
“It’s time to get up Miss Catherine. ‘ave you gotten much sleep? You look exhausted.”  
“It was Holmes. He kept me up all night.”  
“Aw, I’m sorry Miss. ‘e’ll do that. It’s that bloomin violin it is. If it ‘elps, you do get used to it after a while.”  
“Thank you Maggie, is it time to serve breakfast?”  
“Afraid so Miss.”  
“Very well, back to work.” I sighed.  
I rose, dressed, and exited my room to go downstairs. On the way down, I glanced at Holmes’ door, and noticed the tea tray outside. I huffed, and went back up to retrieve it. Once I got up close enough, I noticed a note on top of the teapot. I opened it with trepidation.

“I’m looking forward to learning what your mother thinks about your sister’s new beau. I agree with your grandmother; goats’ milk is infinitely better for the skin than cow’s milk. Tell her to start making her soaps from that. She’ll make a pretty penny.  
P.S. - Don’t forget the sugar."  
-H

I forced the rueful smile that had formed from my face and bit my lip. My emotional state ran the gamut from indignation, to embarrassment, anger, amusement, and finally, resignation. 

So be it. The game was on.


	3. Meetings and Greetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine Keaton finally meets John and Mary Watson.

Meetings and Greetings

The morning I received my note from Holmes, I also met Dr. Watson and his wife, Mary.

After I had fetched the paper and brought Holmes his breakfast and mail (all the seals broken just for good measure) I was taking the tray downstairs when I heard a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson said from downstairs, “Would you get that Catherine?”  
“Yes mam.”

I went towards the door, tray in hand. Upon opening it, I saw a handsome man in a tall hat, wearing a fashionable mustache and dressed stylishly. On his arm was a lovely redheaded woman with kind grey eyes.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”  
“Good morning, I am Dr. Watson, and this is Mrs. Watson. May we come in? I’m a friend of Mr. Holmes. Is he in presently?”  
“Ah, the famous Dr. Watson, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Yes, Mr. Holmes is in. Mrs. Hudson has mentioned you before. My name is Catherine Keaton; I’m staying in your old room.”  
He smiled, “How are you holding up?” I moved aside to let them in. I sighed, searching for the right words. He eyed me, “That well, eh?”  
“It’s been…an experience.”  
“You are too kind.” Dr. Watson removed his hat and helped his wife with her coat, deftly holding his cane beneath his arm.  
As he hung up their coats on the rack beside the door, he tried to put me at ease. “Holmes is a solitary creature given to a number of unique… idiosyncrasies. He comes across as coarse and abrupt because, to be quite frank – he is, although he does not go out of his way to be rude. If you have too much trouble with him, feel free to notify me and I shall speak to him.” He gave me a rueful smile and I was surprised at how willing he was to speak to Holmes on my behalf. Did the doctor really have that much sway with him?  
“Thank you very much for your offer Dr. Watson. Let us hope I shall never have to take you up on it. I seem to be getting by so far.” The Doctor had a look in his eyes as though I were speaking too soon, but he was unaware of how much experience I had dealing with rough creatures, human and animal alike.  
Mrs. Watson turned to me and spoke as she held her hand out, “Hello Miss Keaton, I’m Mary Watson. It is a pleasure to meet you. My husband is kind to warn you of Mr. Holmes’ personality, but take it from my personal experience; his bark is worse than his bite.”  
I grasped her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.” I wanted to put the subject of Holmes to rest. Whatever their thoughts were on the subject, I would ultimately see for myself. “Have the both of you had breakfast? Shall I fetch some tea?”

I liked Mary Watson instantly. She seemed sincere yet polite. A difficult combination to obtain.  
“I think some tea would be nice.” She looked to her husband, “Will you be joining us John, or can you and Mr. Holmes tend to yourselves?”  
“Oh, don’t worry about us. The old man probably won’t come down for some time. Go on without us.”  
“Very well, I think Miss Keaton and I shall get to know one another.” She smiled down at me; she was tall, taller than me at five foot five inches.  
Dr. Watson ascended the stairs, “You ladies enjoy yourselves. Nice to meet you Miss Keaton.” he nodded at me, a smile behind his blue eyes.  
“Nice to meet you Dr. Watson.” I turned to Mary. “Shall we go into the parlor Mrs. Watson?”  
“Oh please, call me Mary. That would be lovely. Maybe Mrs. Hudson can join us.”  
“I’ll let her know you’re here.” I guided Mary to the parlor, just for the sake of being a good hostess, and then went downstairs to speak to Mrs. Hudson.  
“Dr. and Mrs. Watson are here. I need some tea for Mrs. Watson. She’s asked if you could join us Mrs. Hudson.”  
Mrs. Hudson seemed in a better mood this morning. She had not had to deal with Holmes for some time due to my new role as his ‘keeper’.  
“Oh Miss Mary is here. How lovely. I’ll be right out.” I took the tray she prepared upstairs to the parlor.

Mary had removed her bonnet, and her lovely red hair sat in neat curls.  
“Mrs. Hudson will be right up.” I sat down and poured the tea.  
“Thank you. How long have you lived here Miss Keaton?” She added sugar and took a sip.  
“Just about two weeks.” I stirred sugar into my own tea.  
“You are from America, am I correct?”  
“Yes mam. Texas, to be precise.”  
“And what does your family do in Texas?”  
“My father runs the family ranch while my mother handles the finances.”  
“How did you come to be in London?” She set her cup and saucer down and daintily set about making her plate.  
“At first,” I blew over my tea before sipping, “I was supposed to come here and stay with my Uncle Ian, my grandmother’s eldest brother. He works for the Navy, and was on assignment in Ireland. He invited me to visit him, but on my way here, Mrs. Hudson received a telegram saying he had been ordered to report to India, and would not return for some time. Her late husband and my Uncle were good friends. She invited me to stay here in London while my Uncle is away, and so far, I’ve enjoyed it very much. Mrs. Hudson is so kind to allow me to live here.”  
“Well, that’s lovely. We simply must get together sometime. Why don’t you come over for dinner next week? I’ll ask John if Mr. Holmes wants to attend.” She seemed genuinely pleased to have made another female acquaintance.  
“That would be wonderful, I’d be delighted.” I genuinely smiled. She was the first person I had met other than the other women in the household. Maybe she could show me a bit about London.

It was at about that time that our attention turned to the stairwell, as we heard a swift succession of steps descending.  
“Holmes, -” I recognized Dr. Watson’s voice, he sounded irritated.  
“Ladies,” Sherlock Holmes entered the room, “May we join you for some tea?” Holmes spread his arms wide, and then clapped his hands together, rubbing his palms, as though nothing in the world would please him more than tea with us.  
“Why certainly Mr. Holmes. Please do. We simply thought you and John might like some time alone to catch up.” Mary smiled at a perturbed Watson.  
At that moment Mrs. Hudson entered the room, and although very much a lady, she could not help but let the disappointment of seeing Holmes show in her face.  
“Mr. Holmes, you’re up and about quite early.” She stood at the entrance to the room, unwilling to enter.  
“Two more place settings Nanny. Unless, you are willing to join us as well?” His voice sounded villainous, as though he had some devious plan in mind for her.  
She did not even bother to try to stifle her sigh, “No thank you. I shall fetch the extra cups.”  
“You’ve broken my heart Nanny. I’m beginning to think you have a distaste for me.”  
“I can’t imagine why. I still haven’t had you committed. Though, don’t push your luck.” She exited the room.

Holmes and Watson took seats in the chairs across from the sofa Mary and I occupied. Mrs. Hudson re-entered, set down the additional china, and exited without a word.  
“I wanted to thank you Miss Keaton for opening my mail for me this morning. I’ll be sure and return the favor.” Holmes scooted his chair up to the table, pouring him and Watson some tea.  
I could tell by the look on Watson’s face he found this comment odd. He decided to change the subject.  
“Any good cases at the moment Holmes?” Dr. Watson seemed to be relaxing. I could instantly see how comfortable the two men were together. I could understand how they would genuinely miss one another if apart for too long. I took in their demeanor, and I had never seen Holmes quite so at ease.  
Holmes responded before popping an entire cookie into his mouth, “Just one, but I’ve already solved it. With Miss Keaton’s help I might add.” He cheeks puffed out due to the amount of cookie and he momentarily resembled a chipmunk. I snorted into my tea cup.  
Mary turned to me, intrigued. “Really, how so?”  
I automatically blushed at being the subject of so much attention and at the thought of my role in the ordeal being overemphasized. “Mr. Holmes simply asked me about a subject I knew. There was a murder last night, and I happened to be familiar with the history of the victim.”  
Watson spoke up, “Do you mean that Ashcroft fellow? The one found murdered in his bed?”  
Holmes answered, “The very same.”  
Mary asked, “How did you know him?”  
“I only knew ‘of’ him. He is, or was, well known back in Texas. He was a very rich, very greedy man. He was always in the papers. He did business with the father of a friend of mine.”  
I addressed Holmes, “Have you found out who did it?”  
“Did what?”  
“Committed the murder.”  
“Oh, you should have specified. I’ll have to teach you proper English.”  
Watson reprimanded him softly, “Holmes.”  
“Well, she didn’t specify." He paused to sip his tea, "It was his mistress-turned wife.”  
“Really? How do you know?” I was interested in his methods. I had read about Holmes’ cases in the paper for years because my friend William ordered the London Times.

“It was quite simple once you told us about his personal life. He was staying in the hotel under a false name. It was not even one of the nicer hotels, which led me to believe he was there in secret. Upon examining the evidence, a few stray blonde hairs, a smattering of lipstick, the scent of perfume lingering on the sheets, it was obvious he had been with a woman. Reports said his new wife was still in the United States, so of course the evidence of a woman in his room was interesting. As it turns out, after a minor investigation, she believed he was being unfaithful to her, and rightly so. She had him followed to London by a private detective. Here he met another woman, and within the week span he was here, his wife came over on a steam ship, stalked him, killed him, and attempted to leave the country under a false identity. If it hadn’t been for one piece of evidence she might’ve gotten away with it too.”  
“What was the evidence?” Mary’s eyes were alight with intrigue. Watson wasn’t as fascinated as Mary and I. He was used to Holmes’ methods.  
“She left a loose end. The man she had follow Ashcroft sold her out. It seems the exorbitant amount of money she paid him wasn’t enough to keep him quiet.”

“Fascinating. So, when planning a murder, never leave any witnesses is what you are saying?” I meant it as a joke, but I noticed something hard flit behind Holmes’s eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, but I had definitely seen it. It wasn’t imagined.

“First rule of crime. You cannot trust anyone.” He continued to sip his tea, but I could tell the mood had changed. Watson seemed uncomfortable and Mary had her eyes downcast.  
“I’m sorry, did I say something wrong?” I felt suddenly guilty and embarrassed at my faux pas.  
Watson stepped in, “Of course not. We’re simply having a conversation about a case. Are there any other promising mysteries on the horizon Holmes?”  
“Not at present, but you never know when Lestrade may need help finding his wallet.” Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a billfold.  
Watson looked amused, instead of taken aback, “You didn’t.”  
I was incredulous, “You stole that poor man’s wallet! Oh good lord.”  
“How does everyone feel about lunch courtesy of Scotland Yard?”

After we dined for lunch at a small café, we took a walk through the nearby park. Holmes and Watson went on ahead while Mary and I walked a few paces behind.  
“It seems you and Mr. Holmes are getting along, as much as one can with him.” Mary eyed Holmes’ back, shading her delicate skin with a parasol.  
“I’m not sure yet. He has been reading my mail. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s been through my things as well.” Mary did not bat an eye.  
“John said when they lived together Mr. Holmes would always steal his clothes.” Her amusement was apparent in the way she tried suppressing a smile.  
“If I see him in my dresses I just might have to cause him bodily injury.” She laughed.  
“He’s welcome to my corsets though.”  
“John said he’s disguised himself as a woman before. That may not be as far-fetched as you would think.” It was my turn to laugh.  
“Are you saying he,” I spoke in hushed tones, “he cross-dresses?”  
She smiled mischievously, “Not quite, but anything it takes to solve a case, he’s willing to do it.”

I looked at the backs of the two men. Watson was talking animatedly about something. Holmes’ head was cocked to the side, the profile of his hat and sunglasses stark against the green of the trees along the path.

“They seem very close,” I said.  
“They are as close to brothers as two men can be. They would do anything for each other. They’ve risked their lives for one another. I’m grateful John has someone he’s so close to.”  
“I find it so funny that Holmes would find anyone he could stand, or that could stand him.”  
“John was devastated when we all thought Mr. Holmes had died. You’ve never seen a man in more shock than when his best friend has come back from the dead.”  
“That’s right, I remember reading about that. I cannot believe he let everyone think he was dead.”  
“John and I believe he did not actually plan on surviving the Moriarty case. It just so happens that he did. I’m so glad he’s back, just for John’s sake.”  
“How long have you two been together, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
“We will be married six months at the end of August.”  
“Are you looking forward to starting a family?” I saw her frown slightly.  
“Yes, if we are so lucky. John and I both want children, but I’m afraid I may have waited too long to have them.”  
I empathized with her, there was little chance I would ever have children myself, not at my age.  
“There’s still time. I’m sorry I brought it up. I seem to have a knack for saying the wrong things today.” I stepped closer and laid my hand on her arm. She smiled at me.  
“Not to worry. If it is meant to be, it will be.” She put her hand over mine.

The four of us continued our walk through the park until we reached the end of the path. Mary and Watson parted ways with us in the afternoon, waving goodbye from the windows of a carriage.

I stood with Holmes, strangely at ease with him at the moment.  
“You two seem like very good friends.” I found myself smiling. I had not had such an enjoyable day in such a long time. I usually avoided the company of strangers, but the Watson's were so amiable. I was able to relax in their presence, which was unusual for me.  
“You and Mary seemed to be getting along swimmingly.” We began walking down the street, weaving in and out of the crowds of passersby. I had no idea where we were and relied on Holmes to know the way back.  
“She’s lovely. I’ve never had very many female friends. Just my sister really.”  
We came upon a large group of people that threatened to separate us. As there were many alleyways ahead, I grabbed the back of Holmes' coat to keep pace with him. He turned to look at me over his sunglasses.  
“I’m sorry, I’m not used to such crowds. Back home in town it is not even this crowded on Main Street at noon.” I let go of his coat as soon as we had made our turn around a building. I trembled slightly with nervousness. I shouldn’t have made contact with him. It had just been instinctive.  
“You don’t like crowds?”  
“Not very much, no. So many people make me...uncomfortable.” I felt embarrassed. How did I know he would not use this information to my disadvantage in the future? With Holmes, you never knew what he might be stowing away for reference.

We continued down another alleyway, this one darker and much more nefarious. I walked more closely to Holmes. As we came to a corner, all of a sudden about ten children seemed to appear out of nowhere. Holmes stopped abruptly.  
“Mind your pockets,” he whispered. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my dress. 

“Wat’s the password?” One little boy, he couldn’t be more than 8 or 10, glared at us. He wasn’t the oldest, but he seemed to be the leader.  
“Squatternutbash,” said Holmes.  
“Nope.” The child was stone-faced.  
“Queen Victoria’s drawers.”  
“Nuhuh.”  
“Hmm, we seem to be at an impasse then.”  
“Reckon so.” The children formed a line in front of us, blocking our path.  
“Oh, now I remember.” Holmes reached into his pocket, took out two coins, and tossed them to the boy. The boy caught them deftly, glanced at them, and nodded gravely. The children parted, and Holmes walked through. I went to follow, but they jumped in front of me.  
I squealed “Mr. Holmes!”  
“Yes?” he looked at me expectantly.  
“What do I do?” I eyed them with trepidation.  
“You must pay the toll.” I couldn’t believe this. I took another look at the children. They were obviously hungry and homeless. They may not have eaten in days.  
From the few coins I had fisted in my hands, I took out two, I presumed they would be enough, and went to hand them to the boy.  
As my hand left my pocket, I felt the slightest touch on my hip. I looked down, and one little girl ran away.

“Run fer it!” Shouted a tiny voice, and all the children scattered in seconds, all but the one boy.  
“What? But- hey! Come back here you little monsters!” I yelled in vain.  
“Holmes!” I shouted indignantly as my hands balled into fists.  
“Don’t look at me, I told you to mind your pockets.” His expression looked immobile.  
I huffed, “Ugh. Fine, but only because they’re starving children.” I thrust the coins at the remaining boy, and he looked at my hand.  
“Nah, don’t trouble y’self missus. I’ll let it slide cause you’re so pretty. But on’y dis once.”  
“You are too kind,” I growled. If I was not mistaken, I saw the corner of Holmes’ mouth lift up ever so slightly.  
“Night then Bobby.” Holmes tipped his hat at the boy and turned away.  
“Night Mr. ‘olmes.”  
Bobby winked at me, “Night missus.” I was stunned. 

I came to my senses finally and hurried after Holmes. I had no more money if the children should come back.  
“I can’t believe you let them do that.” My feelings were hurt. He didn’t even try to protect from those street urchins.  
“Such are the laws of the land my lady.” I pouted.  
“Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming.” This only served to intensify my pout.  
“My brother would’ve whipped you if he knew you had left me to those wolves.”  
“Those ‘wolves’ you speak of are my associates. Bobby is quite the up and coming detective.”  
“They work for you? What do they do? Just rob people?”  
“Don’t be so crass. There is no better spy in the world than a seemingly innocent child.”  
“Hmph,” was my answer.

My feelings continued to be hurt until we rounded the corner. Holmes ducked into a camouflaged door in the side of a building.  
“Come along. I have something I need to retrieve.”  
“What are you about to subject me to now?”  
“Don’t be so dramatic. You sound like Watson.”

We had entered a large, empty warehouse. On one side there was what looked like a low wall in the middle of the floor in the shape of an circle. What looked like a saloon bar stood behind it, against the wall.  
Holmes began climbing a narrow staircase up to a second floor. I followed him up the creaking stairs, and we entered into a small room filled with various vials and beakers and a few pieces of furniture. I saw an actual bed; that particular article was absent from Holmes’ room on Baker Street.

“What is this place? Your secret hideaway? Your laboratory?” I looked at the science equipment.  
“In a manner of speaking.” Holmes walked over to a shelf on the wall, pocketed his sunglasses, and reached for a vial. I had no idea what was in it, I wasn’t close enough to see. He simply slipped it inside his coat and made for the door. I followed him out and we exited the building.

“What was that thing? That wall in the floor?”  
“It is a boxing ring.”  
“Do you box?”  
“On occasion.”  
“Do you win?”  
“Every time.” I couldn’t help but smile. I had never pictured him as the ‘athletic’ kind. He was rather slender and wiry. He was probably the type that would surprise you with his agility.

We walked in silence all the way back to Baker Street. Upon entering the foyer he simply dashed up the stairs, two at a time.  
“Good night Miss Keaton.” and he was gone. I heard the door to his room shut, and I was alone for the first time all day.  
“Good night Mr. Holmes,” I said to myself softly.

I didn’t bother bringing him dinner that night. I didn’t think he wanted it. For some reason I had the feeling he wanted to be alone. So I let him.


	4. The Science of Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our main characters have a midnight interlude.

The Science of Deduction

The rain tapped a steady rhythm against the window. All I could hear was the rain, the rain and my own breathing. If I buried my head in the pillows, I heard my heartbeat thud above every other noise. I willed the sound to lull me to sleep. Moments. Hours. Nothing.  
My throat tightened and my eyes began to sting. No, I wouldn't cry. Self-pity enveloped my heart just as tightly as the quilt I was wrapped in, and I struggled harder to steady my breathing. It grew warmer under the covers and my hand searched for a cool spot beneath my pillow. As I shivered at the change in temperature, I felt the knot in my chest loosen. I needed to breathe, and the shock of the cooler air in the room might help. It was better to do it in one quick movement. How far was my robe? It should be hanging on the desk chair…

One. Two. Three…. I took a deep breath, and threw the covers off as I stood and stumbled toward my robe. The chill crept up my skin like icy fingers as I shrugged on my robe and blindly grappled around for slippers. I shivered as I slinked back to my bed, sitting in the warmth that still radiated there and pulled the quilt around me. The moonlight shone through the drapes, I had forgotten to close them before going to bed. The light was strangely comforting considering I liked to sleep in complete darkness. I watched my shadow shift across the floor as I rocked myself on the bed. As my body blocked the moonlight from hitting the bottom of my bedroom door, I saw a faint yellow light filter through the space beneath the door.

Holmes must still be up, I thought. I felt a faint sense of security knowing that he was also awake at this ungodly hour. Although his sleep habits were unusual, his being awake at this time of night probably related to some various case or experiment. My only reason was insomnia. An idea struck me through the fog of a sleepless night, and before I could stop myself, I slipped off the bed and gently eased open my bedroom door, trying to counter the squeaky joints by putting pressure into the frame. I slipped through and padded across the hall, up to where the light beneath his door washed over my feet. As bright as the feeble light seemed in the pitch-black hallway landing, there was no warmth to it. Was his fire lit? Maybe just candles. I froze, still as a statue with my heart pounding in my ears. What was I doing? Going up to a man's door in the dead of night – and in my nightgown no less!

A nonsensical part of me wanted to knock on the door, to not be alone and have my imagination drag me into a depressed stupor until exhaustion was finally able to pull me into numbness. But I knew, although I had never consciously realized it until this moment, that he was not like other men. He would not think me forward or unladylike for going to him. He would either be disgruntled at being interrupted in his thought processes or curious as to what I was up to. Either way, I just wanted to know that I wasn't the only person in London unable to sleep at that moment.

I had always felt very alone, even when surrounded by people. Yet, here he was, a few feet beyond, just as awake as I, as evidenced when I heard a scuffle of feet and shuffling of papers. I was oddly comforted, and I couldn't put my finger on why. As I stood there debating my next move, staring at my feet, the light grew larger as his door opened inward barely an inch with a creek. My head shot up just as I heard a gravelly voice whisper, "Who goes there? Friend or foe?"

Somehow, I channeled the gasp I had suddenly inhaled into a quivering "Guess." With my heart in my throat, I watched his eye appear at the crack; his body block the light, then the door swing open, seemingly in welcome. I was trembling as I stepped across the threshold and I couldn't see him anywhere in front of me. 

"Are you accustomed to your enemies announcing themselves?" – I asked quietly as I surveyed his territory. Papers were plastered across the wall above the desk, and anywhere there weren't papers there was writing directly on the wall. Open books and newspapers covered the desk, couch, and floor across the room.  
His drapes were drawn and I noticed the fire burned down to embers with scraps of paper no longer of use sentenced to incineration, crumbling within. I sensed more than heard the door close, and his voice was only a couple of feet behind me, "You would be surprised how many of my enemies do announce themselves, whether they mean to or not. Men of a negative disposition are always arrogant, and arrogant men love to hear themselves talk. Many a plausible victory has been foiled due to a self-indulgent monologue, giving the hero a chance to overcome the odds." He circled around to my left, hair ruffled, wearing a crumpled shirt with his cuffs rolled up to the elbow.

I don't know if it was simply my lack of sleep but I suddenly felt bold. I decided to tease him. "Bad men aren't the only arrogant ones." I made sure to smile as I said it, as I was always afraid to hurt anyone's feelings, even if the one person I felt I could tease seemed impermeable to anything I could possibly say. He raised an eyebrow, the only show of emotion on his face. I stifled a laugh as I turned and moved toward the fire to warm my hands. My hands shook slightly, and I hoped to God that he thought it was from the cold.  
I turned back to him, "Are you the hero?"

He stood with his hands behind his back, and I noticed his bow protruding from behind him. "Hardly. A hero, as I see the term in relation to Greek and Roman myth, relates to a strapping youth, blessed by the gods with immense strength, bravery, magic weapons, and he usually has a guide, who provides him with every available lead. He hardly has to think for himself, and in the end, he receives prizes in the form of kingships or women or wealth. His quest ends cleanly and the people shower him with gifts and drink and few of these 'heroes', if any, deserve the recognition bestowed upon them. Their fame is a result of chance and circumstance. Greek myth, as I am sure you are aware, rarely involves logic, the only real trait a man need possess to accomplish great feats." He fingered his bow as he continued to wander around.

I blinked as he finished his speech and digested what he said. He always spoke so quickly. Often I had to pause shortly to absorb his words, so what might seem a speech for another man simply sounded as necessary and succinct coming from his lips.

His lips...my eyes briefly alighted on this particular feature – by this time he had circled me once and was again facing me, his back to the door. It never ceased to amaze me how a man who was so sardonic, rarely genuinely smiled. Nevertheless, he still appeared to communicate his amusement through his eyes. He could smile just with his eyes and every other muscle in his face would be still as stone, as he did now. He was satisfied with something. I could not begin to imagine what entertained his mind.

Holmes was taking a risk assuming I knew anything about Greek myth; a simple girl from a small town in Texas with no formal education had no reason to ever come across such tales. However, I corrected myself, I was anything but simple, even I knew that, and could admit it without arrogance. It made me smile that somehow he knew this, and guessed I would be familiar with Greek and Roman history. I decided I would attempt to pry an indirect compliment from him. "How would I be familiar with Greek myth? I've no formal education." I tilted my head to the side as I questioned him, hugging myself for warmth. I was slowly becoming more comfortable.

At this, he began to pace around the room once more and I could sense the self-satisfied aura he projected before launching into a discussion of his methods. Sure enough, he said, "You are obviously well read, which means you were self taught or, someone close to you, probably a family member – aided in your education and intellectual pursuits. The classics would have been a likely choice in literature…" I broke in here, and I couldn't help but smile as I said, "You're line of thought is logical, but you are missing a knowledge of rural American culture and custom. You are close, but you haven't hit the nail on the head yet."

"Perhaps I could if I wasn't rudely interrupted," he countered.

"I hardly think I interrupted you, you did pause." He turned toward me, certainly to object, but I took the rare opportunity to make a deduction of my own. "I can see how you would refer to Greek heroes either to impress or educate me, but you said you were sure I was aware, and I find it interesting that you would make such an assumption. There was no need to."

Here he squared his shoulders, and seemed to decide to skip his lecture in favor of cutting right to the quick, "I am sure you are aware of Greek myth because I happen to know you possess a book on the matter." At this I gasped, "How on earth could you know? You've never been in my room…" but I suddenly realized my mistake. Of course, he had been in my room, the twit.

"I cannot believe you entered into my room without my permission, and to what purpose?" I was experiencing same sense of mortification I had felt upon learning he had read my correspondence.  
"Purely scientific inquiry, I assure you.” His snobbish tone only caused me more distress. “Your manner of speech and topics of conversation are not the vapid airs of condescension purported by most women. Knowing the elements of your background, of which you have freely spoken, I wanted to know how you came to possess these elements of education, as your habits deviate from the stereotypical manners of a woman raised in the country. You are a lady, one prone to curiosity and inquisitiveness, unusual traits to be sure. All of that and…"

"You were bored," I coolly finished for him.

"I would not put it so vulgarly; I genuinely wanted to see if you would be of use as an addition to the household."  
My indignation at his intrusion into my privacy switched to feeling insulted. "Of use?" I inquired with slightly more bite than I intended, then it dawned on me. "Ah, I see. You had just lost Watson as a partner; he was no longer at your beck and call, so you wanted to see if I would be of use to you. You got used to having someone at your disposal." He narrowed his gaze at me. "Am I close to guessing your aim?" Just deducing him helped thaw my demeanor.  
He shifted his gaze to what looked like a pile of clothing and books in the corner but as he sat down before it, I recognized it to be a camouflaged piano. He began playing Fur Elise, my favorite composition by Beethoven, and I instantly calmed. My eyelids began to flutter with exhaustion from the hypnotic lullaby. After a few seconds of playing, I decided to give up my mission of fishing a compliment from him. He had only indicated he thought me intelligent after I found out he snuck into my room because he wanted to know if I would be useful. Hmph. Men.

"Any new cases?" The words escaped my lips just as the music was coming to an end. I knew I struck a nerve because his shoulders stiffened. He must be tired, I thought, he was usually so inscrutable. It was then that he stopped playing but still faced away from me as he said, "I have a job for you."


	5. The Kidnapping of Princess Catherine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine gets her first case.

The Kidnapping of Princess Catherine

“I have a job for you.”

A beat of silence passed as I digested his words. The rain dripped a steady cacophony against the windowpanes. "A job?" I asked, laughing in disbelief, "You must be joking." I rolled my eyes at him.

His rough voice answered, "I assure you madam, I never joke." He said this gravely without the least bit of irony and I could not help but smile.  
"Forgive me. How dare I insinuate such falsehoods?" Even I could hear the smile in my voice.

"You are forgiven… this time." He waggled his eyebrows at me. I willed my heart to slow its hammering rhythm in my chest.  
I smirked and asked, "Since you always speak the utmost truth, to what job do you refer?"

He played a few more chords on the piano, and then leapt off the stool, launching himself at the violin lying next to the fireplace. He grabbed the violin and rolled sideways, picking the bow off the floor from where he had dropped it and stood up, all in one easy, fluid motion. He moved quick as lightening. I stared in shock as he slowly teased a few notes from the aged instrument.  
After he had made one circuit around the room, he turned toward a teetering pile of mail on his desk. Taking a letter from the middle of the stack, I watched as the others toppled to the floor, the sound of paper softly scraping against the carpet mingled with the crackle of dying embers and the trickle of the now relenting downpour. He held out the envelope and I took the pro-offered mystery. Breaking the seal, I steeled myself for whatever mischief he had in mind for me. Even though the violin music did not stop, I could feel his gaze on me as I read:

Dear Mr. Holmes,  
I am afraid I must request your services due to a catastrophic incident. A terrible disaster has befallen my family. My precious Princess Catherine has been kidnapped! Please lend your brilliant mind to solving this heinous crime and securing the safe return of my beloved cat. Your reward will be substantial.  
I anxiously await your reply,  
Mrs. Jonathan Weatherby

"Well then," I paused trying to process what I had just read, "a dastardly villain is on the loose. Alert Scotland Yard." He must be expecting some kind of reaction. I will not rise to the occasion.

The violin music stopped. I recognized it as some piece by Mozart. "Will that be your first plan of action? I really expected more of a, shall we say, 'hands on' approach."  
"This is your job for me? You are teasing me; I know it. You probably wrote this yourself." I waved the letter about in disbelief.

"Once again, I assure you madam; I never joke about cases. This calls for your immediate attention. Should you manage to solve it and recover the aforementioned feline; a promotion will be in order."

"You do not have that authority," I countered, though I honestly was not sure he did not – “Mrs. Hudson procured my position for the sake of my Uncle, and I doubt she would be amused at your idea of a 'promotion'. A promotion to what position exactly?" I was dismayed at whatever game he seemed to be playing. His intentions must be dubious.

"If you succeed at solving this case, you would prove yourself worthy of a position as my assistant." This notion triggered an interest on my part. An assistant to THE Sherlock Holmes? Why, William would be pea green with envy. I pictured his handsome face, dumbstruck with surprise when he read my letter. 

My doubt about his intentions became clouded by the possibility of working alongside Sherlock Holmes. But how could I possibly succeed? The thought seemed unfathomable. How did I even begin to find a presumably kidnapped cat? Yet, a small voice in the back of my mind buzzed with excitement. 'He wouldn’t have given you this case if it couldn’t be solved. It’s a challenge, he wants to see if you will rise to the occasion.' I admitted to myself that something about this man fascinated me, and the thought of solving this case and proving myself, as improbable as it seemed, filled me with pride. Catherine Elizabeth Keaton did not back down from a challenge, especially when the reward was to be held in some esteem in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

How was I going to solve this case? Now that was another matter entirely.

Glancing across the room in deep thought, I noticed movement and caught my reflection in a dirty mirror hanging on the red wall. The woman before me looked exhausted. Dark circles highlighted her pale skin. She appeared ghostly, a porcelain vision in lace and ribbon. A slight, permanent frown graced her Cupid's bow lips. The woman in the mirror seemed haunted. Sad and tired, but behind her eyes there lay a steadfastness that was dormant until challenged. At that moment, she jutted her chin out and tilted her head. Hazel eyes turned gold in the firelight. I looked at the image with detachment. My mind was reeling.

"Cease your gawking at yourself and turn your attention to the matter at hand madam. You have yet to announce your decision. What would you care to do about this - “he pointed at the letter in my hand with his violin bow.

"It is rude to point at a lady,” I uttered without emotion, my attention had returned to the letter.

"It is equally rude to ignore someone when they are asking you a question," he retorted in mock irritation.

I did in fact ignore his question, and instead asked one of my own. "How ever did you know I would be able to take this case? How did you know it wasn't a triple homicide or a complaint about a nude clown running amok in the park or something else equally indecent for a woman to investigate alone?" I raised a quizzical brow.

"I would never send a young single woman alone on the case of the less savory sort on her first official outing, such as that of a runaway nude clown. That would have to wait until your second case," his eyes were turned to the violin in his hands. His monotone betrayed no amusement at the thought of a nude clown running amok.

He continued unabashed, "I will humor you by answering your question, and then you will answer mine." He took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of his method.  
"The handwriting on the outside indicates a matronly lady of status and wealth," he began, "women of that ilk hardly ever have anything of interest to say, and they most certainly avoid calling attention to their faults. I could tell without opening the letter she had likely lost a glove or something equally insipid and is either convinced her maid stole it or simply wants the attentions of a dashing detective because her husband ignores her. A request to investigate a kidnapped cat is beneath my powers of perception, especially since…. I have more pressing matters to attend to." He lazily drew his bow across the violin strings, drawing out a bored moan from the instrument.

"That was not what you were going to say…" I paused in thought, "Oh my…you've already solved it haven't you? You want to see if I can. Am I correct?" He granted me a small smirk for my deduction, though he kept his gaze on the violin.

Before he could say anything else, I surprised myself by blurting "I'll take it."

He dropped his bow, and began to pluck a few notes on the violin with his calloused fingers. "Then it appears that you have work to do tomorrow." He strummed his song, seemingly ignoring my presence.

"Yes, I suppose so. I wager I should begin first thing in the morning." I folded the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.

"That is only after you've served my breakfast and fetched the paper." He still had not lifted his head to look at me. The notes flowed from his fingers into the empty chilled air.

"Of course. Nothing would give me greater pleasure." I gave him my sweetest smile as I turned to leave, as if my tone alone did not sufficiently convey my sarcasm.

As I moved to go back to my room, I caught a fleeting smile on his face, but as I twisted back to look at him, the smile disappeared as quickly as it came.

"Oh, and Miss Keaton,"

"Yes Mr. Holmes?" I placed my hands on my hips.

"Do not call me 'Mr.' Just Holmes will suffice."

"Dually noted." I turned to leave once again.

"And Miss Keaton…" he trailed off as he plucked his violin.

"Yes Holmes?" My tone pitched in mock interest as I humored him.

"Do try and get some rest. You would hate to frighten the poor woman who has already suffered such a severe trauma when you visit her tomorrow."

"Yes sir." I sighed; he need not remind me of how tired I always looked. I made my way toward the door fearing he would continue to test my patience.

"And do not call me sir. It makes me sound pompous. You should only call Watson Sir. He is pompous enough for the both of us."

"Yes, Holmes," I huffed. I did not stop to turn around.

"By the way, I find Chamomile tea helps."

"Helps with what, pray tell?" I paused with my hand on the doorknob, I braced myself for some sarcastic remark.

"Insomnia." This gave me pause. He knew I struggled with sleep. However, I suppose it was obvious. I did resemble some sort of ghoul at the moment. My sleep patterns had been irregular for years. The doctors said it was a result of something they called 'melancholia'. Whatever the condition, it made life exceedingly difficult.

"Does it work for you?" I asked in reference to the Chamomile tea. I turned back to him in genuine interest. Maybe I should ask Mrs. Hudson if she had any in the morning.

"I am a very peculiar case." He faced the fire as his fingers strummed his instrument. Of course he was only referring to the inability to sleep, though I smirked at the implication of his remark.

"Truer words were never spoken." I retorted as I turned to leave. He finally rose and quickly strode across the floor to usher me through the door. I turned back to him, a mild tremor fluttered through my stomach at the thought that he had taken offense to my comment.

"Oh and Miss Keaton, one more thing." His eyes darkened with satisfaction at my visible discomfort.

"Yes?" I swallowed a lump in my throat. He can’t have really been offended. He approached, and I pulled my hand back as he reached for the knob and pulled open the door. I eyed him as I stood in the doorway, we were inches apart.

He lowered his voice and his tone was inscrutable, "No more lurking outside my door. I might mistake you for an intruder, box your pretty ears, and then where would we be?" His remark caught me off my guard and I turned around as I stepped into the hallway. With that last question, he shut the door in my face. I found myself back on the landing, quite frazzled and irritated to boot.

One thought reached the surface out of the flurry of emotions. Did he just call me pretty? 'Why should you care? You know he didn't mean it. He was patronizing you.' I shook my head to clear my thoughts and refocus.

There was no reason to alert my Great Uncle Ian as to what I was up to. As long as Mrs. Hudson did not suspect something nefarious, she had no reason to tell on me. I could not wait to write to William. I returned to my room, anxious about the next day, yet euphoric that Holmes wanted more to do with me. Instead of sleeping, I sat up and wrote to William and my Uncle Ian, except the letter to my Uncle conveniently overlooked Holmes' proposal.

 

Next: Mrs. Weatherby pleads for help.  
Reviews are more than encouraged. If something bothers you, please let me know how I can improve for the next chapter.  
-Herstorian


	6. The Investigation Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine ventures out on her own on her first investigation.

The Investigation Begins

"Nothing contributes so much to tranquilizing the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye." –Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly

 

My eyes opened to the sound of Mrs. Hudson knocking on my door. "Are you up dear? It's time to serve Mr. Holmes breakfast." I responded with a grunt she took in the affirmative as I sat up in bed. My head ached with exhaustion. Chronic insomnia coupled with my excitement at Holmes' offer of my own investigation allowed me only a few hours of sleep. My limbs moved sluggishly to lift my person up and out of bed. I stumbled toward the desk chair and wrapped my robe and then a shawl around my shoulders. The chilly air felt damp after the intense rain from last night. September in London differed from the same month in Texas by twenty to thirty degrees.

As I splashed my face with water from the basin, not even the scent of my homemade mint soap served to keep the familiar tiredness from settling into my bones. At twenty-five years old, I was fortunate that I only appeared about eighteen, maybe twenty. That did not change the fact I was on my way to becoming an old maid, but it kept people from giving me piteous looks, at least at present. Since I had entered my teen years what had been nervous habits and quirks turned into bouts of sanguine moods and anxiety. Fear of failure, of the unknown, of judgment, and a myriad of others overshadowed my everyday life.

I resigned myself to the idea, which day by day seemed to be growing into a fact- that I would never marry. I think my mother took the disappointment to heart more than I did. Even if I did not struggle with almost daily feelings of loneliness and sadness that seemingly came on without cause, I doubted the possibility of marriage. The idea of dedicating my life to some man, commit myself to the role of wife and mother, bear children, and pretend that it brought me fulfillment seemed utterly abhorrent. No one I had ever known could seem to understand what I was going through. My family did not understand why I disliked company, or why I preferred solitary walks or reading in my room to going to local dances or going into town. They did not know that simply attempting to speak with strangers or being faced with a room full of men looking to dance, who would look at my sister, then at me, and always choose her – made my chest ache and my palms sweat.

“It’s because you always look so stern Caty. A young woman must look as though she wants the company of a young man. Why would he pick someone with a scowl or slumped shoulders? Those young men do not know you, and so you appear aloof and perturbed. Try smiling more – that alone would make a difference.” My mother meant well, she thought she was only helping me by making suggestions about how I should act. She did not understands that all I heard were criticisms about my every habit. Grandma Ninny was much more blunt, “Don’t look so much like a strict old school marm, girl. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, even if your sister is prettier, to be sure. Just don’t frighten the poor souls by asking questions as you always do. Men do not want a girl who thinks she is smarter than him, be it true or not.” Her soft Irish brogue was still evident after a lifetime in America and it lent itself to a matter-of-fact tone.

My father and elder brother always said I was too sensitive. My mother and grandmother said the same, but they tended to offer advice, instead of simply stating a fact. I came to believe that I was just born odd. There must be something wrong with me to feel so sad and nervous, when girls were supposed to be cheerful and enjoy going out into the world.   
I always felt that no one understood how I struggled with the simplest tasks because no one really did. 

No one except my closest friend William.

And William, well, he was a special man. William had become my closest friend and I had even thought I was in love with him for quite some time. Mother was hopeful he and I would marry, but gave up that hope once I explained to her, rather delicately, that he was not the 'marrying kind.' He had never put it into words, even after all these years, but I could still sense the reason he did not wish to marry without ever discussing it with him. William had said I was exceedingly perceptive, and he was right, never knowing how I had pieced together the secrets of his preferences and forced my aching heart to view them honestly. I would always love him, but the love I once imagined as romantic had grown into a deep and sincere friendship.

I gazed at my pale reflection in the vanity as I brushed and braided my wavy brown hair. It was so thick it took some time to arrange properly. I settled for one large braid coiled and tied up with two smaller ones. After adding what felt like dozens of hairpins, I turned toward my wardrobe and picked out a dress decent enough for traveling to visit Mrs. Weatherby later that morning. As I stumbled slightly descending the stairs toward the basement kitchen, I crossed paths with Maggie as she came down from the third floor.

"Why, Good Morning Miss Catherine," she greeted me looking crisp in her maid's uniform.

"Good Morning Maggie, have you visited Mr. Holmes yet this morning?" I teased her. I knew the answer to that question.

"Why, you know you are the ony one ‘oo really has much to do wif him nowadays. Ever since Mrs. 'udson told me he once 'ad her worm a goat, I've made up my mind never to step foot in that man's room again if I can 'elp it." Her soft cockney accent always sounded pleasant. She instantly brightened my gloomy day.

Her elaborate updo of red hair sat perched underneath her maid's cap. I was always so envious of her talent with ornate coiffures. I told her as much, and she said, "Why Miss Catherine, all you 'af to do is ask and I would've 'elped you with your 'air."

"Maybe you could teach me a few skillful tricks some other time. Right now, I need to serve the gentleman his breakfast."

"That is," she added, "if 'e eats it. I swear, I've never really seen him eat anyfing substantial. Just tea and biscuits. It's a small wonder 'e's still alive."

"That man's eccentricities will never cease to amaze me," I commented as we entered the kitchen.

"Good Morning Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Gosling," I nodded at her and the cook. "Is breakfast ready for Mr. Holmes?"

Mrs. Gosling handed me a tray of ham and eggs with toast. "Good luck dearie," were her parting words to me as I ascended back up the stairs to Holmes' lair. 

Once I knocked and he opened the door to take the tray, I let him know my plans. I took a deep breath, “I’m about to go see after Princess Catherine,” I stood awkwardly in anticipation. I hoped he might give me some parting wisdom since he was the one sending me on this errand.

"Give Mrs. Weatherby my regards" was the only advice he offered. The knot in my stomach that I had woken up with grew even larger. I took a shuddering breath, wiped my sweaty palms on my apron, and turned to leave.

“Well then, I suppose I shall see you this afternoon.” I turned back one last time; a part of me hoped he might accompany me.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” he blurted, his back to me while he focused on his meal.

I closed the door to Holmes’ quarters and walked back to my room to gather my hat and reticule on trembling knees. I looked in the mirror one last time before I left. ‘You can do this. This is part of the job. Simply ask the appropriate questions. You must learn to take initiative.’ A slight frown graced my mouth and a wrinkle connected my brows. I took a deep breath once more, and spoke aloud, “You can do this. I can do this.” The knot in my stomach loosened slightly. I made my way downstairs, exited the front door, and waved down a cab.

I rang the bell to Mrs. Jonathan Weatherby's residence at approximately 11:00 am. A tall, thin, balding man with the largest mustache I had ever seen (even larger than my father's) answered the door asking rather boredly, "How can I help you?" He adjusted his monocle then stroked his mustache in one practiced movement. He reminded me of a picture book I had as a little girl of a large walrus who had escaped from the zoo.

My voice shook slightly as my words came out in a rush, "My name is Catherine Keaton. I am an associate of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We received a letter from Mrs. Weatherby asking for his assistance. Is she available?"

"And where might be the great detective?" He looked at me suspiciously, but I decided I could catch more flies with honey.

"He is currently very busy with his caseload, but has asked that I meet with Mrs. Weatherby to get more information about her request before he commits himself." Then I added, a little louder, "I'm sure Mrs. Weatherby doesn't have a moment to spare. Is she able to take visitors? I am only here to help her. She did ask for our assistance." My feeling that the lady of the house would be nearby paid off when a middle-aged woman with graying hair and harried blue eyes appeared behind the mustached man. "Charles," she chided sternly, "let this young woman in immediately." The bite of her words was noticeable without the need for raising her voice.

"You must excuse me Miss Keaton; I have been in a terrible humor the past two days. I really am beside myself. Please come in." The woman I presumed to be Mrs. Weatherby swished out of sight, and Charles, who I presumed to be the butler, let me in with a slight frown and a nod.

After the initial ritual pleasantries, Mrs. Weatherby led me to an old-fashioned, yet well furnished parlor. I surveyed the room, and noticed right away something odd. Along the wall opposite the door hung a painting, but no ordinary family portrait or picture of still life. The painting on the wall was of a large, white, long-haired cat with emerald green eyes. As Mrs. Weatherby led me into the parlor and invited me to have a seat, I turned to my left and was struck by an even larger painting. This time, the picture depicted Mrs. Weatherby holding her precious cat in her lap. The cat's eyes seemed to eerily follow me around the room and I wondered if this was some cruel joke on the part of the artist.  
Mrs. Weatherby practically dropped into her own chair and her out-of-fashion bustle gave a creak beneath her olive green house dress. I was preparing to navigate the situation when Mrs. Weatherby burst into dainty sobs and produced a handkerchief she proceeded to bury her face in the lacy folds.

She attempted to collect herself as she said, "Miss Keaton, you must know already, a great tragedy has befallen me. I withheld the details in the letter for fear of compromising my husband's name, but now I must tell you the entire terrible tale." She began sobbing again, and I tried to console her as I said, "Please Mrs. Weatherby, tell me what has happened and I will try to be of as much help as I can."

She took a deep breath to calm herself, dabbed at her nose, and explained, "It happened the day before yesterday at around tea time. I noticed that Princess Catherine, my precious prizewinning Persian, was nowhere to be found. I asked all the servants and searched the entire house, but found no sign of her. At around 7 o'clock in the evening, one of the servants noticed a note tacked to the back door." At this she started, and rose from her seat. She walked over to an antique box, and pulled a folded paper from within. She held it out to me and as I took it from her trembling hand, I read:

Mrs. Weatherby,  
We have your cat. If you ever wish to see her again, please leave 50 pounds in a paper bag in your back garden by midnight tomorrow.

My mind was already reeling from the note, but I refocused back to Mrs. Weatherby. "After we received the note, I knew I could not notify Scotland Yard. I was terrified of what they might do to my poor Princess Catherine if I reported her kidnapping to the police, so I asked my husband to leave the money in the garden. I waited up all night, but…b-but we never saw anyone."

She began a fresh wave of sobs - I felt lost. A kidnapped cat, what was the world coming to? 

‘Think of what Holmes would do.’

"Mrs. Weatherby,” I began softly, as I rested my hand on her lower arm, "what business is your husband in? What does he do for a living?"  
"He's in shipping. His company ships all over the empire." 

‘Think Catherine, think. What needs to be done?’

I took out a small notebook from my reticule for this specific purpose, and began writing down the facts in an attempt to sift through my thoughts.  
"May I interview the other members of the household? Your husband or servants? Anyone who was home at the time of the…incident?"

Suddenly, I knew exactly what I had to do.


	7. The Problem with Peas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine attempts to pry advice from Holmes

The next morning (Friday)

I danced on the balls of my feet as Mrs. Gosling prepared breakfast. My apron twisted in my hands and I hardly heard Maggie as she went on about some boy from the market. Small beads of sweat appeared on my brow and excitement bubbled in my stomach. After what felt like hours, Mrs. Gosling handed me the tray of food to take up to Holmes. Alrighty then, it's time to begin.

I marched upstairs and only tripped twice. The second time, the tea nearly suffered a casualty, but I managed a near miss as I lurched forward and caught myself at the top of the stairs on my elbows. I scrambled up, and knocked on the door with the toe of my boot (as Mrs. Hudson had instructed me not to do). A bored "Enter," was heard from within, and I obliged.

I must remain inscrutable. He's expecting me to come begging him for help. Total nonchalance is critical to the outcome of this conversation.  
Holmes was bent over his desk with his back to me. "And what's cook prepared this morning?" He still had not turned around, but I heard him tinkering with some contraption or other.

"Your favorite; poached eggs. And I will stay here until you eat every bite." As I set the tray down, he turned towards me and something flashed across the room like a bullet, bouncing off the walls and finally embedding itself in an armchair. A flurry of feathers announced its landing. What on earth…?

"I am testing the traveling velocity of foods frozen in liquid nitrogen. This," and he picked out the projectile from the chair with a pair of long tongs, "is a pea."

I finally noticed his face and saw he was wearing goggles that magnified his eyes to twice their normal size. He looked the perfect mad scientist, standing holding a specimen wearing his apron with a smoking beaker of strange liquid behind him. Sunlight filtered into the dark room and dust motes danced in the air. The light glinted off his glass goggles and I realized I was standing with my mouth open. I shut it with a snap and struggled to gather my thoughts after such an unsolicited attack on my person. A flying vegetable had nearly struck me while I served breakfast to a world famous detective. Such was life living with Sherlock Holmes.

He is trying to distract me. Well, he won't succeed, even if he is assaulting me with frozen vegetables. I took a deep breath to steady my voice before speaking.  
"Well, since you are determined to assault me with peas, I suppose you do not want to hear about how my case is going." I attempted nonchalance and hoped my tone and body language expressed as much.

"Oh no, on the contrary," he hopped over to where I stood and growled, "enlighten me."

I struggled to keep a straight face looking him in the eye so I settled on pacing about the room, just as I had seen him do on so many similar occasions. I folded my hands behind my back and strode over to peek out the window, as though something had caught my eye. Carriages passed on the street below, splashing through the mud. The sound of horse hooves and wheels on cobblestone clattered in the background.

I turned back around to face him, "I visited Mrs. Weatherby yesterday, and she was most obliging. She took me through the events of the day and even gave me a miniature portrait of Princess Catherine to help me locate her." I pulled the tiny painting out of my pocket and showed it to him. He took a look at the kidnapping victim and noted, "She does have the look of royalty about her."

I ignored him as I re-pocketed the portrait and resumed my pacing. "Mr. Weatherby, on the other hand, seemed overeager for me to leave. When I interviewed him, he kept insisting what a ridiculous request it was to find a stolen cat and that I really shouldn't bother Mr. Holmes with such nonsense when he has more important matters to attend to. Mr. Weatherby," and at this I nodded back at Holmes," is obviously unaware of how you spend your spare time." He seemed to be listening as he twirled the tongs in the air, standing with his weight on one foot.

     Mr. Weatherby's beard had been red once, now it was nearly all grey. I pictured him sitting across from me, constantly yet deftly checking his pocket watch. His grey eyes seemed to hide something. The butler, Charles, had stood at attention the entire time I asked questions, either unwilling or not permitted to leave his master. I guessed the former.  
"Miss Keaton, I am sure you are aware what a lost cause this is," he shook his head gravely, “I am sorry my wife has troubled you. She is grief-stricken and only wishes to have her darling pet back. But, alas, I do not see what more can be done."

     "Please Mr. Weatherby; allow me to look into this case. Mr. Holmes is an excellent detective. I am sure he can get to the bottom of these strange events." I placated him, using Holmes' name to elicit some degree of confidence. I sat across the coffee table from him, using my tea cup to anchor my unsteady hands. Visiting strangers always made me nervous.

     He seemed not to hear me, and instead took out a very expensive looking fountain pen and began writing a message on specially monogrammed paper. He finished his note, and folded it, getting up to open the writing desk and take out a stamp, sealing the letter. He passed the letter to Charles, who walked over to hand it to me.  
"I am afraid there is no case to solve Miss Keaton," he continued as if I had not spoken, "please do give Mr. Holmes my regards. I have enclosed a note of thanks for his trouble."

     I was dismissed.

I described the events to Holmes, finishing "He would not even allow me to say goodbye to Mrs. Weatherby."

Holmes responded, "Interesting. What is the timeline of these events? Go over it." He pointed his finger in the air as he dropped into his chair near the window.

I stared into empty space, focusing my concentration inward. "We received the letter Wednesday asking for help. Mrs. Weatherby said the cat went missing on Tuesday afternoon, and the butler found the note on the door at around 7 o'clock. The ransom note stated that the cat had been kidnapped, and to leave 50 pounds in the garden the following night. No other visitors had been in the house that day.

Mrs. Weatherby sent us her plea Wednesday, before the time the money was to be left for the kidnappers for fear that something horrible would happen to Princess Catherine. She then left the money out Wednesday night, and waited up all night but never saw anyone approach the house. Thursday morning at 11 o'clock I arrived to investigate the case. I interviewed Mrs. Weatherby, her housekeeper Sarah, the butler Charles, and Mr. Weatherby, all of whom contested to not seeing the cat after lunch time on Tuesday."

By this time, Holmes had remembered I had brought him breakfast, and had moved to sit down at his desk to eat. He picked up his napkin with a flourish and tucked it into his collar. He sat munching on toast and eggs as I contemplated the best way to go about ascertaining advice from him in as unobtrusive a manner as possible. My hand strayed to my pocket subconsciously, betraying my next move.

"So, where's the letter?"

"What letter?" I played dumb. The chances of him actually foregoing the opportunity to poke fun at me were dwindling by the second.

"The one the old chap gave you to give as an apology to the 'excellent detective'."

"He never called you an 'excellent detective'." I raised my brow, foolishly thinking I had won.

"No, those were your words, as I recall." Curse him.

I glowered at him. He was right. I hated when he was right. Incidentally, that happened much more often than I would care to admit. I pulled the letter from my pocket and handed it to him just as he snatched it from my fingers.

He raised his eyebrows at me, "Trouble with the delivery?" He nodded toward the aforementioned letter in his palm, the seal already broken.

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about." I walked off, away from his scrutinizing gaze. "I happen to know that the letter contains exactly what Mr. Weatherby said it did; an apology, to you, for wasting your time. Never mind that I was the one doing the investigating and taking time out of my busy schedule of cleaning up after you to look into the kidnapping."

"I resent that. Watson never complained about cleaning up after me." He jutted his chin out and crossed his arms. "And at any rate, you are missing the most important clue."

"And what would that be?" My heart leapt into my throat. I could not even pretend to hide my interest.

"If I told you," he continued, "then your investigative career would be cut short and you would spend the remainder of your time in London only picking up after the great Sherlock Holmes instead of working with him."

I bristled. This was not the help I was hoping for. He held the letter out to me between his thumb and forefinger, as I went to grab it he jerked it upward, out of reach. I took a deep breath, reached for the paper again, and proceeded to wrench it from his grip. He stared up at me innocently, his dark brown eyes wide as a doe's eyes - his goggles only magnifying his pitiful expression. I snorted derisively, as a proper lady should never do, and looked over the letter for the tenth time. Holmes began scraping his plate with toast.

"It's right under your nose," he conceded. I sighed in frustration, trying to control my temper. I was more frustrated with myself than with him. Why couldn't I solve this if it was so obvious?

Think Catherine. What do I know? What do I feel?

My instinct told me Mr. Weatherby was to blame for Princess Catherine's disappearance, but how to prove it? Why would he steal his wife's cat? What was the motive?  
"Are you quite finished?" I asked, exasperated by the entire situation. By this time he was licking his fingers. I prepared myself for watching him lick his plate, but was spared such a scene by Maggie bringing in today's post.

"You've got mail," I announced without ceremony, and dutifully brought him the letters. I knew his manners horrified the other women of the household but they did not bother me at all. I had two brothers and a father that were hardly better equipped than cave dwellers with silverware despite my mothers’ protestations. You could say I was immune to less than proper table manners. It was belching and blowing noses at the table that got to me. I still winced when my grandmother or father did either. Fortunately, Holmes was not inclined to those less favorable traits.

He tossed all but one of the letters in the floor, tore open the one that interested him, and began reading. My mind was still reeling from his commentary.

After a few moments of silence he announced, "Well, well, well, it appears I do in fact have more important matters to attend to."

"Like licking your plate clean?" I teased him. Despite my inner frustration, I maintained the energy for verbal sparring. Something about him forced me to stay on my toes and this helped me to focus on the present. This brought a welcome distraction to someone who was constantly worried about the future.

"Precisely," he said without missing a beat. "Away with you!" He waved me out of the room without so much as a 'thank you'.

"B-but, wait just a-" I managed to stutter as he ushered me out the door, "-minute." I finished my pitiful sentence on the landing, his door shut in my face. I was terribly confused, but, maybe all I needed was some time to think things over.

I marched toward my room with more confidence than I felt. Walking over to my desk, I placed Mr. Weatherby's letter next to the ransom note Mrs. Weatherby had given me the previous evening. "This will probably be of more use to you, I have no need for it now," she had stated before bursting into a fresh wave of tears.

I really did feel sorry for the poor woman. Her husband did not even want to help her. No wonder he seemed so suspicious.

Just then, I took a look at both pieces of paper side by side. Something struck me about the writing. It took a moment before I realized that both the letters had a very similar style of handwriting, only opposite. As if one had been written with the right hand, and the ransom note, with the left; but both written by a right-handed person.

Excitement seized me as I realized what Holmes had said. The answer had been literally under my nose when I was reading the letter.

Mr. Weatherby must have been responsible for the cat's disappearance, but was afraid of telling his wife.

But why go through all of this trouble? Was he that afraid of her? He had gone to great lengths to hide his involvement, but to what end?

I needed to confront Mr. Weatherby. This would take some gumption, but I knew that my partnership (assistant-ship) with Holmes was hinging on the outcome of this investigation. My head buzzed with the new information. I sat at my vanity to put on my hat and smiled at my reflection. There was a light in my eyes, a keen yet subtle excitement. It was an expression of the internal vigor I felt at having something to stimulate my mind.

Maybe I would be handy at this detective work after all.


	8. A Fishy Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine finds out more information about the case while also coming to other realizations.

A Fishy Situation

The carriage hit a rather large pothole and my backside briefly broke contact with the cushion. I did not remember the carriage ride being this jolting the first time I visited the Weatherby residence. It was probably just my nerves. The ride back to the Weatherby house filled me with excitement and anxiety. I twisted my gloves in anticipation, looking down at my hands. Looking for anything to divert my attention from the situation at hand, I took out the small cracked hand mirror from my reticule and checked my reflection. My brows were gathered in worry and a small frown helped emphasize how nervous I felt. I attempted to place stray strands of hair back into my bun with twitchy fingers. I forced a smile on my face as I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips to put some color into pallid complexion. Part of me hoped Mr. Weatherby would not be home so I could avoid this entire confrontation.

I came back to my senses with a jerk, my body bobbing with the swaying carriage. At least when on a horse I could gauge the pace and balance myself accordingly. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. How was I to go about this? What would be the best strategy? What would Holmes do? I struggled to put my mirror back into my reticule with shaky hands.

I needed to convince Mr. Weatherby that I was not there to threaten or interrogate him. He had to believe I was on his side. I simply wanted to find out what had happened to Princess Catherine, nothing more. If it had been an accident, then I could put the case to rest.

The carriage arrived sooner than I anticipated, and I tumbled out as I planned my next move. After paying the coachman, I turned with trepidation to the front door of the Weatherby house. A breeze blew the smell of fish under my nose, making me pause. I had not noticed the smell yesterday. Maybe it was only when the wind blew in a certain direction.

I rang the doorbell, and waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the butler Charles opened the door and looked at me with disappointment etched in every inch of his bushy face.

"Miss Keaton," he said with chagrin, "we were not expecting to see you again… so soon." His body blocked the door, seemingly to keep me from barging in. 

"Yes Sir, I am sorry but could I speak with Mr. Weatherby, is he in?"

"He is unavailable."

"Will he be available any time soon? I assure you, it will only take a moment I …" and at this, I lowered my voice, "I think I know what happened with Princess Catherine, and I have no plans to discuss it with Mrs. Weatherby. That is unless Mr. Weatherby is unable to speak with me." I tilted my head to the side, indicating my understanding of the situation.

Charles hesitated, and simply stated, "Wait one moment." He closed the door, and I lingered impatiently.

The butler reappeared at the door, this time to allow me in with a discrete wave. I entered, and Charles led me down the hallway into Mr. Weatherby's study. The room’s paneled walls held book cases on three walls, the fourth wall held two windows that opened onto the garden. Mr. Weatherby rose when I entered, then gestured for me to take a seat on the opposite side of his desk. I had the feeling not even Mrs. Weatherby entered this room often. The smell of cigar smoke and old books emanated from the wood paneled walls.

"Miss Keaton, Charles tells me you have news about my wife's cat." He sounded reserved, but he had an aura of exasperation about him. I had to make this brief.

"Yes sir. I simply wanted to ask you a question; I know that you were involved with the disappearance of Princess Catherine. What happened to her three days ago?" I said this with as much respect as I could muster, and with no trace of arrogance.

The older man sighed, then seemed resolved to his fate as he said, "It was a complete accident. I never meant for any harm to come to her. My wife absolutely loved that cat. We never had any children, you see." He sat bemused, his hands folded on his desk.

"Please Mr. Weatherby, tell me what happened, and I will do everything I can to help you." I meant what I said with absolute sincerity.

"I doubt very much there is anything you can do to help. Still, I will tell you what happened. Pardon me a moment." I nodded, and he rose to procure a glass of what I presumed to be brandy from a cupboard behind his desk. He turned to me, "Do you mind if I…?" and he gestured to a cigar he had pulled from a drawer.

"Not at all."

He nodded, and lit the cigar with a match. Taking a few puffs, he began, "These are my usual cigars. I tried a different type the other day, Tuesday to be exact, but they produced an unusual amount of smoke. My wife has allergies, so I only smoke in my office." He took another puff, and I noticed my nose begin to twitch. I sniffed, and tried to stifle a cough. These cigars seemed to affect me a great deal more than Holmes' pipe tobacco.

"The smoke was so bad in fact, that I opened a window to aid in air circulation. Charles was tidying up in here when the cat slithered in between his legs. Neither of us noticed her until she was up on the windowsill. She had never been outside; my wife was adamant about her never going outside. Both Charles and I leapt after her at the same time, but in a moment, she was out the window and into the garden.

"The two of us rushed into the garden, and began looking for the cat. We found her up on the second story windowsill. How she even reached it, I cannot imagine. She hardly exhibited such feline abilities lolling about on her pillow every day. I told Charles to fetch the ladder from the carriage house and we used it to try to reach her. Thank heavens my wife was still at luncheon with Mrs. Croft. We would never been able to explain ourselves." He began to pace behind his desk, sipping his brandy in one hand, holding his smoking cigar in the other.

"By the time we raised the ladder, the cat had made it up to the third story roof. Charles climbed up to try and grab her, but by then she had disappeared. I could not believe our luck. I knew my wife would be devastated, as well as furious at us both. I was at a complete loss as to what to do."

He sighed, obviously troubled, "I panicked. Charles and I came up with the idea of a kidnapping. The cat was quite valuable you see. She was a prize-winning purebred Persian; it was plausible that some breeder could have desired her. I did not think my wife would believe it if she had simply disappeared, so we thought of writing a ransom note. I used my left hand to disguise my handwriting." He nodded at Charles, still standing at attention near the door, always at the ready. I could imagine the two men coming together, bent over Mr. Weatherby's desk, terrified of telling Mrs. Weatherby what had happened.

"And now you've painted yourselves into a corner, so to speak."

"I am afraid so. Do you have any suggestions as to our next plan of action?"

"Well," I began, "I can only think of one thing." I paused, not wanting to say what was to come next. 

I steeled myself, "We must find the cat."

"How do you propose we do that Miss Keaton, she has been gone for three days! Even if a miracle happened and she were still alive, how on earth would we find her?" He sounded slightly perturbed.

"I have a plan." I tried desperately to keep my voice from shaking. 

"Does it involve going door to door asking for a large white cat?" Trust Charles to be condescending at a time like this. I was only trying to help them.

"It involves gathering data. Is your wife home Mr. Weatherby?"

"No, I convinced her to visit Mrs. Croft to get her mind off the entire situation."

"Excellent. Then you are still in the clear. I'm going to need you to take me through the events of Tuesday afternoon. From lunch until the time you left the ransom note on the door. Do not leave anything out. And," I added, "would be so kind as to give me a sample of the cat's hair, perhaps from a brush or her favorite pillow?"

Mr. Weatherby looked surprised at my forthrightness, then, as though buoyed by renewed hope, he faintly smiled. "You heard her Charles, let's get to work."

The gentlemen took me through the strange series of events and only Charles looked at me as if I had offended him by asking for a ladder to climb up to the roof. I knew any tracks would have been washed away by Wednesday night's rain, but I still wanted to take a look around. Once on the roof, I studied the surrounding terrain. A long garden wall stretched behind the row of houses all the way to the end of the block. In the distance sat a squat warehouse just at the edge of the Thames River, the largest building within a few blocks. As I stood on the roof the smell of fish swept over me again, and I suddenly realized the building must be an indoor fish market. It seemed strange at first that a fish market would be so close to the Weatherby's wealthy residence, but then in London, many different areas seemed oddly thrown together. New houses and ancient taverns sat right next to each other. After all, there was a tannery next door to 221 B Baker Street.

A thought struck me, but it was a long shot. Once I descended from the roof, we returned to the study. I asked Mr. Weatherby, "Do you happen to know what Princess Catherine's favorite food was?"

"I believe it was some sort of fish. Yes, I'm sure of it. I can ask the maid about the specific type."

"That won't be necessary. Mr. Weatherby, I believe I know where your cat may be, if she is still alive."

"Good heavens, are you certain? If you were able to get her back I would be eternally grateful."

"I will do everything in my power to return her to you, if at all possible." The two men accompanied me to the door.

"Thank you Miss Keaton. Of course, you will be compensated for your efforts. All the more so if you return with the cat in tow.” Mr. Weatherby took out his wallet from an inside coat pocket. He held out a five-pound note. I could not believe my eyes. "This is for your trouble thus far. I will give you twice that if you are able to find the cat and bring her home to my wife." 

I hesitated, - the demure, self-effacing young woman in me wanted to refuse him. However, I remembered this was a business transaction. Holmes was paid for his services, why shouldn't I be as well?

My hand trembled slightly as I took the pro-offered note, "Thank you very much sir. Whether I find Princess Catherine or not, you will know by tomorrow. If I am unfortunately unable to find her, I will notify you by post. Mrs. Weatherby does not open your mail does she?"

"Certainly not."

"Good, then either way, your secret will be safe with me.” I turned to leave, descending the front steps.

“I will be in touch soon Mr. Weatherby. Thank you for your assistance.” I gave a small curtsy, and Mr. Weatherby bowed in kind. Charles watched suspiciously from the entryway.

I turned to walk down the sidewalk, thinking I would enjoy a stroll down the tree-lined street in the early London evening. I felt the tightness in my chest loosen after such an anxious day. Mr. Weatherby believed in my abilities; enough to put five pounds toward my efforts. This mere gesture by a kind gentleman gave a boost to my confidence and I began planning the details of the next morning’s excursion. I nodded good evening to passersby with a lightness in my step. I hardly noticed the man in the greatcoat that had been walking the same path I was as I flagged down a carriage in the London twilight. As I mounted the steps and took my seat, I looked through the large windows of the Hansom Cab to see no one about, and thought no more of it.

I arrived at Baker Street to Mrs. Hudson opening the door. “Why Miss Keaton, I was beginning to worry. Mr. Holmes said he was ignorant of your whereabouts.”  
I sighed in mild chagrin, why did he insist on pestering his poor landlady? “Mr. Holmes knew very well that I was working on a case for him. He apparently wanted to cause you undue stress. I do apologize.” I removed my coat and hung it by the door.

Mrs. Hudson readjusted her shawl, “I am not surprised by his desire to vex me, he never fails to miss an opportunity. But, you must understand that I consider myself responsible for you. Your Uncle entrusted me with your guardianship, and you would do well to remember that London is a far cry from the small towns familiar to you. No young lady of decent standing should walk these streets alone after dark. If just for safety’s sake.” Her serious features were more severe and her frown more pronounced.

I had been so consumed with my current project, I had neglected to remember that, as independent as I was by nature, I should take more care to let Mrs. Hudson know where I was going, especially since I was unfamiliar with London. I felt a tinge of guilt begin to taint my good mood.

“Mrs. Hudson, I truly am sorry. I don’t know where my manners have gone. I would never want to cause you to worry.”

“As long as you know that you need to be more careful. Even if Mr. Holmes sends you on an errand, he is not known to think of the feelings or reputations of others. Let Maggie or I know when you go on errands. Also, do try to refrain from taking Hansoms. They are known for catering to gentlemen. They also travel very fast and some of the drivers are absolutely reckless with the lives of their riders.”

She turned to go down into the kitchen, and I stifled a sigh. “Yes mam.” I knew she meant well.

I stood in the entry, refraining from going upstairs just yet. It suddenly struck me just how careless I had behaved. Never mind taking a Hansom; I was in a very foreign, very dangerous city that I was completely unfamiliar with. At home, the dangers for the most part were wild animals. London did not suffer from mountain lions or snakes or coyotes. Its dangers walked on two legs and preyed on people for much more nefarious reasons. My mind began to wander, imagining what terrors might be lurking in the night. I resolved to carry my revolver, or at least a small knife at all times for the rest of my time in London.

I climbed the stairs slowly as a heavy weariness replaced the light-hearted feeling I experienced upon leaving Mr. Weatherby. Mrs. Hudson was right to remind me of the dangers of living in the city, but I could not help the sense of trepidation I felt upon the realization of how near danger might have been. 

I went to my room and curled up in bed with a book. I had no desire to speak to anyone else that evening, especially my queer neighbor. I could not bear the thought of his detective’s gaze taking in my weakness. It then occurred to me that it would not be fresh information for him. My naiveté was only news to me.


	9. Cat-astrophe

Cat-astrophe

I had not bothered sharing my plans with Holmes that morning as I prepared for the days’ challenge. As I wound up my hair, I considered how I was going to approach traveling around London after Mrs. Hudson's reprimand and my realization of the dangers I may unintentionally leave myself open to. Every step I would take would be into uncharted territory, and I needed to have my guard up, even if this case did seem harmless. As anxious as I was feeling, I was resolved to see this case to the end. Before leaving, I opened my trunk and searched for my favorite knife. It was small with a bone handle and could be easily hid on my person. I had used it to peel apples or knock open walnuts or cut rope. This knife was never meant to be used as a weapon, but just carrying it with me would help ease my mind. I slipped the small blade inside my right boot, determined to devise a way to keep it closer at hand. I could not let my fear of the unknown stop me from finishing this case. Yes I was naive and took a great deal for granted, but once someone set me straight, I was not one to continue on the same course of ignorance. I took a cab to the Weatherby residence, but continued down the street on foot with the fresh September breeze helping to keep my senses alert.

The heels of my boots clicked across cobblestone early that Saturday morning as rosy pink dawn peeked over the Thames river. Tendrils of cloud alluded to the rain from the last few days. A few servants hurried about their business, running morning errands for their employers. My eyes scanned the horizon as the sounds of many men at work reached my ears. A clattering of metal and a mixture of various voices with accompanying accents rang through the streets.

As I came around the corner, the warehouse I had spotted yesterday from the Weatherby roof filled my vision and the smell of men and fish filled my nose. I patted my pocket, feeling the small painting of Princess Catherine knock against my thigh. I had to steady my nerves. If I wasn't careful I might pass out and that was all I needed. My stomach grumbled; I had been too anxious to eat any breakfast. My empty stomach coupled with the fish smell made me feel nauseated.

All right, it was now or never. I stepped toward the warehouse, and my anxiety almost made my knees buckle. I forced myself to move forward, but instead of walking toward the open doorway, I went down the alley behind the building. I paused to steady myself and a small movement caught my eye. It was hard to see in the half-light of dawn, but there was a hole in the siding of the warehouse. The hole was jagged, and a tuft of hair was stuck on one of the sharp edges, blowing in the breeze. I plucked the hair from the opening, and pulled a small wrapper from my reticule. Upon comparing the hair from the Weatherby house to the hair found on the scene, it was highly likely that they both belonged to Princess Catherine. What luck! She had probably been here, and recently by the looks of it.

Maybe I had a chance of closing this case after all. I just had to steel myself for what I was about the endure. The men were certain to think me a fool, but I had a job to do. I took several deep breaths to calm myself, and then half marched; half dragged my trembling form toward the open warehouse door. I stopped dead in the opening, my eyes adjusting to the darkness within. Tables formed rows all across the building, with men either dragging fish to their stations with meat hooks or chopping specimens in preparation for their morning customers. Dead fish littered the floor and hung from hooks in the air. The smell almost knocked me down, but I stifled a gag reflex, and approached the man nearest the door. He stood apart from his companions, surveying their work, his hand stuck in his vest.

"Good morning Sir." My voice trembled, my mouth dry.

"Why good morning lass, and what can I do fer ya today? Have ya come to have a look at what's fer sale this mornin?" He tipped his bowler hat at me.

"I'm afraid not. I have a question for you and your men."

"Do ya now? And what might that be?" He still looked amused, though deflated once he realized I was not there to buy.

I dug into my pocket for the painting and held it up for him to see. "Aw, is that yer sweet kitty girl? What a pretty kitty cat."

"Yes, thank you. She's lost you see, and someone said they saw her here in this fish market."

"Did they now? Well, we have a mighty few cats about this place. They like the fish ya see. Strays come in all the time. You may have a look about, but be careful not to get in the way now girl, I do have a business to run." He winked at me, his blue eyes twinkling, reminding me of my grandmother's eyes.

"Thank you very much sir." I tried to give my sweetest smile as I curtseyed. That had been easier than I thought.

That was the first and only moment things would go my way that morning. I proceeded to ask every man I came across if they had seen my cat, and was met with a myriad of responses.

"Are you daft missus?" One fellow asked, turning to the man next to him, "Is she daft?" I blushed and went on my way.

"I ain't seen no cats around 'ere mum. 'e's a right pretty one tho," answered one nice gentleman.

"Why don't ya git on 'ome mum. Yer waistin yer time 'ere."

Some men just laughed, a few looked dumbstruck that I was even speaking to them. Some ignored me, while others simply shook their heads and went about their business. But,  
"No, mum" was the most popular response.

It was hard enough finding my way around the dead fish, let alone dodging flying knives and cleavers while I was at it. I felt incredibly thankful for the luck that kept me from eating that morning. After half an hour, I doubted I would ever smell anything but rotting fish for the rest of my life.

As I made my way along the gauntlet, I reached where the hole was in the back wall. You could not see it from inside because it was blocked by boxes stuffed with straw. I crept through the maze of boxes toward the hole, a faint trace of light leading the way. I finally had to crawl on my hands and knees, when I thought I heard a faint mewing sound. My heart leapt in my chest. I finally reached the hole, only to find three kittens huddled together. Well, there was proof of other cats here; maybe Princess Catherine was around somewhere.

I crawled back out of the jumble of boxes, and stood up near the wall of the warehouse. I took a good look around. Most of the men had their backs to me, except for those that kept watching me, whether out of good or bad intentions, I had no idea.

If I were a rich old woman's cat out on the town, where would I be? Other than the fish; tools, boxes, carts and various other items I did not recognize were spread among the men throughout the warehouse. A couple of ladders stood against the back wall near me. Gaslights hung from beams along the ceiling. Toward the front of the building, near where I had entered and behind the first man I had spoken to, stood a spiral stair case leading up to an enclosed office up above everything else. A shadow moved behind the blinds, and the door opened to reveal a man without a coat, and his sleeves rolled up. This man, I presumed to be a secretary judging by his visor, promptly descended the stairs. He did this in such a rush, that I thought something might be wrong, but he only walked swiftly over to the man at the door and spoke to him briefly.

My suspicions were realized when the man I thought had been so nice to me at the door sold me out by pointing right at me. I instinctively huddled into the shadows. Upon realizing how ridiculous this seemed, I decided to maintain my dignity and speak to the man face to face, but only after I had taken another look around. The scoundrel would have to physically carry me from the building before I gave up on this case. I must move quickly.

I slinked as stealthily as I could along the back wall, scanning the area for any other signs of possible feline inhabitants. As I moved, I noticed a number of cats living among the boxes. They meowed at me and attempted to rub against my legs through my skirts, hoping for some scrap of food. In the corner of the building opposite the office, there sat a mountain of crates and boxes gathering dust. I couldn't imagine what they were used for, but they seemed to be the home of some ten to fifteen cats. I had hit the mother lode.

My eyes furiously scanned the many cats surrounding me. None of them were white. A couple of cats jumped down from the crates up above my head, and my gaze shot upwards. Up on the very top crate, high above everything else and where she could see all of her surroundings, sat a large, white cat. Excitement flooded through me, but at that moment, the secretary had come up behind me, tapping me on the shoulder. "Excuse me madam, but unless you are a vendor you cannot be…" but I did not hear him finish his sentence because I had leapt up and started climbing the mountain of crates. I climbed furiously, catching my dress on nails and gathering dust and cobwebs in my skirts. "Madam!" shouted the secretary above the din of men and cats, "Madam, please come down! You cannot be in here!" I looked down at his annoyed face, his feet surrounded by cats.

"Just one moment." I never knew if he heard me, because at that second, the crates gave way, and I went crashing down into a pile of wood and debris. Once the collapse had ended, I sat bruised, scratched, and buried in splintered wood. The sudden landslide of crates brought every pair of eyes to my corner of the warehouse. The shock of it all knocked the air out of my lungs, and my corset did not help matters.

As I struggled to regain my footing, I noticed someone else in the pile of crates. The secretary was buried with me. Oh dear, this was bad. I had to get out before he did. I began to wade through the mess as many of the men hurried over to us, either to help us out or simply to escape from their work. The men laughed, even as they helped me out of the landslide. I suddenly remembered what I was after before the crash, and whirled around to look for the cat, but she was nowhere to be found. Dadgumit, this could not be happening.

As two men each grabbed me by a hand, I hurled myself between them. Dashing down an aisle, I frantically looked for Princess Catherine among the legs of the men. I had a sudden idea, and ran to the spiral staircase. As I raced up the stairs, the men shouted things at me, but I paid them no mind. I reached the top of the stairs, and came face to face with a handsome man in a suit. His blond hair was greased back and he looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him. "Um, hello" was my elegant response to his sudden appearance. He must be the manager, I thought, he probably came out to see what all the commotion was about.

"Can I help you?" he sounded perturbed, but polite. "Yes actually, you see I'm-" but I was cut off by a cry of "Sir, SIR! That's her!" Both the manager and I turned around to see the secretary running up the aisle towards us. Damn, I really was in trouble now. I only had one chance. I swiftly scanned the crowd for any sign of a white cat, but could not see anything through the men running around and the crates spilled all about. I had another idea and put my fingers in my mouth to let out a loud whistle. I got everyone's attention at that moment.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I have a request. Do you see a white cat among you?" They all looked at me, dumbfounded. I saw a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, and cried out, "There! Do you see it?" I pointed into the crowd, and just then, Princess Catherine jumped up on top of a table and began feasting on the fish lying there, seemingly forgotten.

"Oh no ya don't you mangy animal," shouted the respective table's owner. I hurried with my speech.

"Whoever brings me that cat, unharmed, will receive five pounds." I pulled the note from my pocket, and every man in the building stared. I waved it in the air as added encouragement.

"She can't be serious," I heard one man say among the multitude of grumbles and questioning looks.

"Oh, I am very serious. Five pounds to the man who brings me that cat!" I pointed, and was relieved when a few men started toward Princess Catherine. What followed cannot be entirely considered my fault, seeing as how the promise of money does terrible things to people.

Two men dove for the cat, and she jumped off the table, into the crowd. The ensuing tumult included several fights, numerous men running about the building, and a ruckus that I was afraid might bring the police.

......................... ......................... ................................ ................................. ................................ ............................ .......................... 

"So what happened next?" Watson's blue-eyed gaze was riveted on my face. "I do believe you've been around my friend Holmes too long. You seem to be taking after his affinity for dangerous shenanigans."

"I resent that. My shenanigans are harmless." Holmes retorted in mock hurt.

"Except for the time you were almost crushed by a ship."

"I have no idea what you mean. I was in perfect control of the situation."

"And there was the time you were hung up on a meat hook by a criminal mastermind."

"Then you proceeded to drop a building on me. Again, I had complete control of the situation."

"What about the time you woke up handcuffed – "

"Watson! Stop diverting our attention from the matter at hand. The lady has not finished her explanation as to how she went looking for a cat and came home with a dog." He glanced at the corgi pup lying asleep on his back, all four stubby legs in the air.

"Well, as I was saying, I was worried all the noise would bring the police. Which, it did."

~ Continued in Chapter 10! ~


	10. Introducing Mr. Rochester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine concludes the Weatherby case and a new resident is brought to Baker street.

Introducing Mr. Rochester

"Well, as I was saying, I was worried all the noise would bring the police. Which, it did." I paced around the room.

Watson looked at me warily, his chin in his hand.

"Are you saying you are a wanted woman? Alert Scotland Yard. I cannot have criminals in my household." Holmes said all of this whilst poking the corgi pup lying in his prone position on the floor with the violin bow.

"I beg your pardon! Would you kindly let me finish explaining myself?" My feathers were easily ruffled after the entire day's ordeal.

Holmes turned to sit sideways in his chair, violin bow in hand, looking bored. Watson dusted himself off, and then settled into his seat, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands peaked.

"Now then, all the ruckus from the warehouse brought two officers who were on their beat nearby."

 

I stood at the top of the stairs watching dozens of men yell, fight, and claw their way towards Princess Catherine as she dodged between their legs. All of a sudden, I heard a whistle blow coming from the entrance to the warehouse. Two policemen stood in the doorway with their batons out. Their helmets glinted in the morning light; the leather straps beneath their chins making them look severe.

The officer who blew the whistle shouted, "Oy! What's goin on in 'ere? What's all this? Break it up you lot!" He blew the whistle again and a few men turned their attention to the police, fists still hanging in the air.

My stomach dropped down through my feet. Was I to be arrested? Would Holmes speak on my behalf? No, of course he wouldn't. He would probably walk in to see me behind bars then just laugh and wish me well. Certainly, Watson or Mary would help me? Technically, I had done nothing wrong. The man at the door gave me permission to enter and look around. That must hold up in court, mustn't it?

All these thoughts raced through my mind as I watched the secretary run over to the policemen and begin shouting and pointing up at me. His sleeves were unrolled and his tie was unwound, hanging around his neck. His green visor pushed back on his head.

The handsome grey eyed man, I assumed the manager, said, "You had better go down and explain yourself. It would look better if you approached them on your own terms." He gently put his hand on the small of my back to guide me.

He was right. I literally hung my head as I trudged down the stairs. The gentleman followed me, and I felt slightly comforted. Maybe he could vouch for me, though there was no reason at all why he should want to. His handsome face looked simultaneously amused and annoyed, but I could not put my finger on why he should be amused. Maybe he was like Holmes in that he found the things I did funny when I thought them foolish.

I moved towards the policemen on wobbly legs. I feared my knees would give out and somehow, I think the grey-eyed man knew how afraid I was and reached out to steady me by the elbow.

"By the way," he whispered, "my name is Nathan Perry, and I manage this humble establishment." I knew it. My heart sank. The manager was kind enough to walk me over to be sure I was arrested. I mumbled, "Nice to meet you-"but my voice disappeared in my throat as I approached the policemen.

Upon reaching the men in charge of my fate, I recognized the second policeman who had not spoken as Officer Clark. Relief washed over me. Officer Clark would certainly know what to do, and at least he knew that I worked with (for) Holmes. I regained some strength as I cried out "Officer Clark!" over the din of the still grappling men. He did not hear me until I was right in front of him, but upon seeing me looked confused, yet pleased.

"Why Miss Keaton, whatever are you doing here? Are you the cause of all this turmoil?"

"I'm afraid so sir. I am working on a case for Mr. Holmes and have somehow managed to start a riot."

"Whatever for?" He pulled me aside and through the door so we could hear each other better. Mr. Perry stayed inside the doorway, surveying his men.

"You see, it all started with this woman's lost cat. I was looking for it and found her here. She is there even now among all the men chasing her. I offered five pounds to whoever caught her, but that seems to not have been the best idea."

"Good lord, no wonder there is such a fuss. Five pounds is a lot of money. You should know better than to tease working men with the promise of free money."

"I'm so sorry Officer Clark. I never meant for any of this to happen." I was almost physically ill with the thought of possible arrest.

"That chap over there said you were trespassing," he said, nodding at the troublesome secretary.

"That's not true! I was invited in!" I bristled with indignation. "I can even show you the man who gave me permission…" and I whirled around looking for the man who had been at the door.

It was at that moment that a miracle happened. It almost occurred in slow motion, as I saw one worker chasing Princess Catherine up the aisle towards Officer Clark and I. I could see the look of determination on the man's face as he dove for her. At the last moment she leapt into the air, and landed in Officer Clark's arms. Officer Clark was as shocked as I was at this particular turn of events, and did not seem to believe his eyes. The man who had been chasing the cat scuttled to a halt at our feet, disappointment etched in every inch of his face.

"Ay, bugger it all! That damned animal is as slick as a greased pig to catch. I guess I don't get my reward." His eyes were downcast.

Officer Clark turned to me and nodded his head, so I reached into my pocket for the money. The man took the pro-offered bill with a huge smile and promptly turned toward the crowd and shouted over the noise, "Oy! Boys! I got her! Five pounds for me, mates!"

There was a general groan followed by shouts of disdain. I was afraid another fight might break out, but that was when the man who had been at the door, I found him to be the foreman shouted, "All right, back to work you lot! That's enough messin around."

Several men kicked the ground and some gave me dirty looks while others took off their hats and waved goodbye to me. I waved back tentatively and shrugged my shoulders as I tried to look sympathetic. Then, Mr. Perry shouted to them, "I'll pay for a round of drinks to any one of you who shows up to McGinty's tonight. Just one round though."

There was a cheer followed by a round of applause as Mr. Perry turned to me. I looked on with wide eyes and an open mouth as he said, "They might as well get something for their trouble. It will probably make them work harder for the rest of the day, since some young lady has taken the liberty to distract them for the last hour."

"I'm so sorry for bothering you and your men. I truly apologize, I never meant for any of this to happen. It was supposed to be so simple."

At this point, Officer Clark came over with the cat still in his arms. "Was this the cause of all your trouble?" Princess Catherine mewed smugly, as if she was totally innocent of the events of the last three days.

"Yes sir, she seems to have taken a liking to you. It's a miracle that we've got her back. Thank you so much for your help." Thank heavens the cat liked Officer Clark, or we might still be chasing her.

"I suppose I better see you off and make sure everything is put to right." He turned to Mr. Perry, "Is there anything else I can do for you sir?" The sight was quite comical; a stern London policeman holding a large, fluffy white cat, her tail twitching up and down.

"Thank you officer, that will be all. Just see that Miss ah…?" He looked at me, questioning politely.

"Keaton. Catherine Keaton, sir." I took the liberty of curtsying. My muscles were stiff from my fall, and dirt covered my torn dress. I must have been a sight to behold.

"See that Miss Keaton returns home safely and causes no further damage to anyone else's business on the way." I blushed furiously, but I could not help a bashful smile.

"Oh, and Miss Keaton, whom do you work for that has sent you on such a strenuous errand?"

"I am working as an assistant for Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"The Sherlock Holmes? Fascinating. Good day Miss Keaton, and please, do not come again." He said his last remark with a wink, and turned away, his hands behind his back.

 

 

Officer Clark and I caught a carriage back to the Weatherby house, and I explained the entire charade to him. The cabbie did look at us strangely with our unconventional cargo in tow, but took us on anyway.

"So this Weatherby fellow will reward you for your trouble?"

"Yes sir and I would be more than happy to share my payment with you."

"Oh no, do not trouble yourself Miss. All I did was catch; you did all the detective work." I smiled as we reached the Weatherby home. As I rang the bell, I could not wait to see the look on Charles' face. I was not disappointed because the dumbfounded expression, open mouth and fallen monocle and all, was well worth tramping around a smelly fish market all morning.

Mrs. Weatherby appeared behind him, "Charles, who is at the door?" Upon seeing who indeed was at the door, she went pale, then, just as I was afraid she was about to faint, let out a deafening squeal.

"My precious! You've found her! Oh you wonderful, wonderful girl!" She rushed forward to take Princess Catherine from Officer Clark's arms, tears streaming down her face.

Mrs. Weatherby's cries brought her husband to the door, where his quiet smile contrasted greatly with Charles' stunned expression.

"Well done Miss Keaton." The relief on his face was palpable.

Mrs. Weatherby asked through tears of joy, "However did you find her? I was sure that scoundrel of a kidnapper would never let her go."

Officer Clark took over, "The unsavory details are better left unsaid Madam. Suffice it to say, that Miss Keaton's methods succeeded in procuring your pet, and the offending party will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law." Mrs. Weatherby jutted her chin out, her eyes hard. Before she could protest, I reached into my pocket to return the portrait of Princess Catherine, which she took with grateful poise, handing it over to Charles who looked put out.

I made eye contact with Mr. Weatherby, and he nodded. "Why don't you take her inside and have the maid give her a bath. I will finish up this matter with Miss Keaton." Both Princess Catherine and I needed a good scrubbing. I was not sure I would ever get the fishy smell out of my dress.

"The devil that did this deserves the rope I tell you, make sure the judge knows that." She turned to me, "Thank you Miss Keaton for all of your hard work, I shall never be able to repay you." Her grateful face and watery eyes brought me a twinge of happiness.

"It was my pleasure Mrs. Weatherby. I'm just glad I was able to help you." She turned, hugging her precious cat, and headed upstairs. Looking over Mrs. Weatherby's shoulder, Princess Catherine's green eyes met mine, and her smashed face seemed to express betrayal. Curse that cat. If she went missing again, let the devil take her.

Once his wife had gone upstairs out of earshot, Mr. Weatherby continued, "I cannot thank you enough Miss Keaton. You have quite literally recaptured my wife's happiness, and rescued mine in the process. She's done us both a great service, hasn't she Charles?"

"Yes sir," answered the butler tentatively. Charles's opinion seemed to differ from that of his master, but it no longer bothered me. Let him look down on me forever. He would always resemble a walrus anyway.

Mr. Weatherby did not seem to notice the butler's disapproval as he said, "I suppose there is still the matter of payment to be dealt with?"

"Yes sir, if you do not mind." I blushed at the thought of asking for money, but chided myself for my childishness. It was perfectly natural that I should be paid for rendering a service. A man would not bat an eye at the thought.

Mr. Weatherby reached into his wallet, and pulled out four five pound notes. I gasped as he handed me twenty pounds and was about to protest when Officer Clark simply said, 

"Thank you very much sir. We'll be off now." He guided me down the street, and when I finally came to myself after the shock of receiving so much money, I turned around and shouted in a very unladylike way, "Thank you Mr. Weatherby! Thank you very much! Have a wonderful day," I waved rapidly at him and saw a slight smile grace his face as he turned back inside the house. Charles just glared at me, and then shut the door.

Passersby looked disgruntled at my display, but I ignored them. I had just solved my very own case (with a bit of luck) and had earned myself a place as Holmes' assistant.

"Well, speaking of spoiled pets," Officer Clark started talking as if I had not just been given a small fortune, "are you in the market for a dog? My wife's corgi just had pups, and she's got one left. We've been trying to get rid of him, but he's a bit off you see. He's the runt of the litter and his tongue is too long for his mouth. I have been asking everyone I know if they are in need of a dog. He might be a nice companion for you here in London."

My first thought was that it would be too much trouble. What did I need with a dog? They had to be walked every day and cared for…but, it might be nice to have a companion; something to come home to (besides my eccentric 'roommate'). Having a pet might help with my mood. Walking him would get me out of the house and help me exercise. The doctors said exercise was the best medicine for me, other than having a husband to occupy myself. They thought I had too many ideas, too many things to think about, and that added to my episodes of melancholia. The fact that I read so much and preferred to be by myself rather than with other people just solidified their diagnoses. Having a dog was preferable to finding a husband, and so much less maintenance. I never expected any man to understand me or make me happy. A dog could love me unconditionally.

"Let's go have a look at him, shall we?" We both turned towards Officer Clark's home.

 

"Please Mrs. Hudson." I begged, "I will take complete responsibility for him." I held the squat puppy in my arms, his tongue lolling out. My heart instantly warmed at the thought of having something of my own to take care of. She looked at me, then at the pup, then up the stairs where some kind of explosion was heard.

"I suppose Miss Keaton, what is one more animal in the house?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"And what will be the gentlemen's name?"

I had been contemplating that on the carriage ride home. "Mr. Rochester." Jane Eyre was my favorite book, though this dog in no way resembled his namesake.

"Surely he has a Christian name?" She eyed the dog in my arms warily, as if his name might make him worthy of distrusting.

"Chester. Mr. Chester Rochester, at your service." Chester's stare was blank, and he did not even bat an eye at the explosion we heard upstairs. Maybe he was deaf?

"Chester!" I said in a harsh whisper, and jerked his head around. No, he was not deaf, but whether or not he was dumb still remained to be seen. The long tongue hanging out of his mouth did not help matters.

I marched upstairs, my heart light and content. Upon knocking at Holmes' door, Dr. Watson appeared, covered in a fine powder. "Well hello Miss Keaton, how is the case going?" I was surprised Holmes had even mentioned it to him.

"Have a seat, and I shall tell you all about it."


	11. Fashion and Friction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An evening out to celebrate Catherine's first case leads to an interesting exchange with Holmes and a new case on the horizon.

Fashion and Friction

The weak light of a cloudy London afternoon illuminated the room through my window. I sat in the middle of the floor of my quarters, watching Chester survey his new territory. He would waddle over to the bed and sniff it, over to the dresser or vanity, then along the many shelves that lined the room, leftover from Dr. Watson's office. My petticoats lay splayed out around me. I needed a bath, and soon. The fishy smell from the mornings' adventure still lingered on my dress lying piled on the floor near the door, waiting to go down with the wash. I looked down at my modest corset; it had been white once, now it was a dingy grey. My three petticoats, all that I owned, needed replacing. They were old leftovers from my childhood my mother had re-hemmed, as I grew taller. The colorful mismatched patterns were an odd juxtaposition to the plainness of the dress usually worn over them.  
I stood up and wandered over to my trunk, opening it up to survey my modest wardrobe. I pulled out my nicest dress, a printed pink calico, and frowned. None of my dresses even remotely resembled women's' clothing here in London. For over a month, I had stuck out like a sore thumb. I had absolutely nothing to wear to dinner tonight. Holmes had said we would go somewhere special to celebrate my promotion to his assistant. Dr. and Mrs. Watson were to accompany us.

The four five pound notes lay on the bed where I had emptied them from my reticule. I had never owned so much money in my life - but what to do with it? If it were in American bills, I would not think twice about sending it to my family. I really had everything I needed here; a few pieces of furniture, my most beloved possessions from home, and room and board courtesy of Mrs. Hudson as a favor to my Uncle Ian with the agreement that I would work and clean up after Holmes.

One thing I learned quickly was that Holmes usually took dinner late, after 8 o'clock. It was only now just after lunchtime. Maybe I could find a new dress before dinner tonight. It would be worth a try, especially since I now had my own money to spend. I swayed on my feet as sleep threatened to wash over me. Waking up so early without much sleep the night before had taken a toll on my body. If I wanted to be presentable for dinner, I needed to get cleaned up and begin my search for a dress.

Chester chose a corner of the room to curl up in, his tongue hanging out of his short snout. Once he looked sufficiently comfortable, I shrugged on my robe and headed to the bathroom to wash myself up. On my way out into the hallway, I heard another explosion as Watson yelled out, "For God sake Holmes! I want to survive to see my wife again!"  
At that moment, Watson opened the door to Holmes' room in a rush, startling me on my way to the bathroom. I clutched at my robe, blushing to my toes. He stopped, covered in blue powder this time, and looked at me with wide eyes, "Oh, excuse me Miss Keaton. I am terribly sorry." His eyes darted anywhere but at my robe.  
"It's quite alright doctor. I do not blame you for trying to escape." I nodded with my eyes downcast. How embarrassing! What would Mary think?  
An idea occurred to me once I thought about Mary, and I hurriedly asked Watson as he turned to leave, "Would I be alright if I paid Mary a visit today? I would like her advice about where to locate a new dress."  
He glanced back at me in mild surprise answering, "I am sure she would be more than happy to help." He turned to descend the stairs, his cane in his hand.  
"Be on your guard," he said cryptically as he trotted down the stairs. "We'll see you at dinner this evening," were his final words shouted in my direction.  
I hoped he meant to be on guard against whatever madness Holmes was up to in his room. What else could he mean? There was really no telling, not where Holmes was involved.  
I scooted my way to the bathroom as I heard another small explosion echo from within the detective's room.

Upon arriving at the Watson residence, I rang the bell. A young blonde maidservant answered the door, and I asked for Mrs. Watson. Mary smiled at me as she reached the door, inviting me in.  
"Why hello Catherine, John said you would come by. It feels like ages since we last spoke. How are you surviving rooming with Mr. Holmes?" Her beautiful red hair was drawn up in intricate curls, and her grey eyes matched perfectly with the dove grey suit she wore. She was the picture of an elegant, fashionable London woman.  
"Hello Mary," I said as I took her hand in both of mine. "It's so wonderful to see you again. I am making do with Holmes, but at the moment I have more pressing matters. Where can I find a new dinner dress? I'd like to have something by this evening, and nothing that I own seems nice enough. Since I am not on a ranch anymore, every dress I have always looks too casual to be worn around London. Do you have any suggestions for stores I might visit?"  
Her eyes lit up, "Shopping? Oh, that sounds like fun. Do you mind if I accompany you? I've been cooped up in the house all day, and we may have a nice girl's afternoon and catch up." My heart felt light at the thought of not having to face the strange city alone.  
"Oh course you may accompany me! I would like nothing better." I smiled at her.  
"Just allow me to let John know and then we'll leave." She patted my hand and then rose to tell Watson where we were going. I sat and waited for her in the parlor. As she climbed the stairs, I heard her soft voice calling, "John...are you in the office?" Her voice was always so soothing; it reminded me of my own mother's.  
She soon came back downstairs looking smart in a velvet hat with blue ribbon.  
"John's just cleaning up. He was quite a mess when he returned from visiting Mr. Holmes. I'm not sure if we'll ever be able to get that blue dye out of his suit." At this, she allowed herself a brief pout, then turning to me asked, "Shall we be off?"  
"Certainly," and I followed her out the door.

I saw Holmes and Watson sitting at the table as Mary and I approached. The two gentlemen appeared to be arguing good naturedly about something. Watson leaned his head back and laughed, just as Holmes took out his pocket watch to check the time. My knees felt weak as the two of us neared the table. Holmes looked so different after a shave and a wash. He had combed his hair and appeared quite handsome in his white cravat and tailcoat. The man should really dress up more often.  
The maître d' led us toward the men, and I noticed many eyes in the restaurant on me. Did I really look that odd? They must know I do not belong. My gait or posture must give my lack of proper manners away. These and other negative thoughts racked my anxious mind.

I looked down at my dark blue silk taffeta dinner dress. I had insisted on a higher neckline; the dipping V-necked dresses that were in fashion for evening wear made me feel distinctly naked. I had never shown this much skin in my life. The rounded neckline of the gown showed off my shoulders and scooped seductively toward my bust, barely indicating the modest swell of pale flesh nestled there. The boned bodice fit closely to emphasize the waist and the fabric hugged my hips before flaring out, as was the protocol of the day, and I was stunned at the way my hips swayed when I moved. A brand new corset creaked beneath my new dress, molding my figure and synching in my waist more than I was accustomed. My arms were completely bare except for the cap sleeves of the dress. Gloves! Curses! I had forgotten about the gloves! Mary had been nice enough to let me borrow a pair of delicate, dangling single-pearl earrings with a screw back since my ears were not pierced.  
The dress was, without question, the most expensive piece of clothing I had ever purchased or worn. The cost of such a gown was difficult for me to accept since I grew up on a ranch and only worn cheap calico, homespun, or cotton dresses my entire life. However, the moment Mary and I arrived at the table, my new dress more than made up for its cost when Holmes looked at me.

His dark eyes darted from my face to the exposed flesh of my neck and shoulders, then back again. He surveyed my figure similar to how I had noticed he looked at everyone upon first meeting them. It was how he took in information about them. He took in every wrinkle in my brow and every curl on my head. However, I was keenly watching Holmes for his reaction and his eyes lingered at my waist and hips as I approached the table. I felt as if my knees might buckle under the scrutiny of the detective’s appraisal. Warmth pooled in my stomach and I felt blood rush to my face. He looked at me so quickly that I felt his gaze more than saw it. I was beaming on the inside. I had attracted the attention of the world's greatest detective, the man who was thought to be impossible to impress. My heart fluttered in my chest with excitement. As soon as I made eye contact with him and noticed his dilated pupils, he looked away and I sensed some apprehension coming from him though he looked as composed as ever.  
Both Holmes and Watson rose from their seats when Mary and I reached the table. They bowed to us, and then pulled out our respective chairs. I awkwardly shuffled my ample skirts into my seat. Once we were seated, Holmes seemed determined to look at absolutely everything in the restaurant except me.

"So, you ladies finally decided to grace us with your presence." Even if he was not pretending to be upset, I could not care less.

"We were a whole total of ten minutes late Holmes. For women, that's not bad at all, is it?" I glanced at Mary as I attempted to make light of the situation even though my heart was hammering in my chest, flushing my cheeks.

"John, don't you think Cathy looks lovely in her new dress?" Mary was busy prying a compliment from Watson for my sake.

"Quite lovely." Watson's blue eyes twinkled as he smiled at me. I blushed; even if he was just being nice, it did not happen every day that a handsome man complimented me.

"Shall we get on with dinner?" Holmes bristled next to me, opening up his menu and shielding himself from our sight. Watson restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

I glanced down and did not recognize a single item on the menu. What was filet minion? Maybe I could ask for grilled chicken or beef. Anxiety flooded through my system and beads of sweat formed on my upper lip. I used my napkin to wipe them away as discreetly as I could.

I finally took a look around and noticed all the finely dressed people surrounding us. Upstanding men in white ties and women wearing their best jewels populated the restaurant. Most of the women's dresses seemed to be brighter in color than mine. Yellow and pink were the most celebrated shades. Darker hues of black and green also dotted the crowd. Finally, looking down at my plate, I saw the most intimidating set of silverware ever imagined. I had only ever used one knife, fork, and spoon. What was I supposed to do with all these superfluous utensils?

My wide eyes must have caught the attention of Mary because she comforted me by saying, "It's fairly simple, you just start using the ones on the outside, and work your way inward with each course." Her kind smile reassured me so I felt comfortable asking her about the questionable menu choices.

"What is filet minion? Is it a kind of steak?" At my words, I heard Holmes snort behind his menu, and the three of us turned to him simultaneously. However, he did not lower his shield, so Mary answered my question, "Yes dear. It's a small piece of beef surrounded by bacon. I think you would like it."

"Bacon makes anything better," was my comment. Holmes took the liberty of snorting again, and this time I had had enough.

"Is there a problem?" I asked his menu.

"Of course not," he said in a superior tone, snapping his menu shut. "I simply find your rural ignorance of proper dinner etiquette amusing."

I was taken aback. Was he calling me stupid? What on earth was he on about?  
"Excuse me?" I asked in disbelief. Was he being mean on purpose? My suddenly raised voice attracted the attention of the table next to us, and I lowered it saying, "I don't know what you are up to Holmes, but you seem determined to ruin a lovely outing. You've reached your quota of insults for the evening. Let's get on with dinner, shall we?"

"There's no need to be emotional." That struck a nerve. How did he know exactly what to say to anger me?  
Watson saw the look on my face and interjected, "Now Holmes, do try and be a gentleman. We are celebrating here, or do you not remember?" Watson sounded like he was trying to lighten the situation while warning Holmes that he had gone too far. The trouble was Holmes never thought he had gone too far.

The tense moment was avoided when the waiter arrived, taking our orders. I stuck with the filet minion and a glass of red wine recommended by the waiter. I looked forward to having some wine. It was bound to relax me. I needed all the help I could get to put up with Holmes at the moment.

Watson, Mary, and I made small talk until the food arrived. Mary asked about the case I had solved, and Watson added encouraging compliments when called. All the while, Holmes looked bored and swung his pocket watch around by the chain, his eyes surveying everyone in the room except the people at his table. I simply could not concentrate on my conversation with Mary and Watson when Holmes was acting the way he was. I absentmindedly drew shapes on the white tablecloth and turned my water class around in circles. I had moved on to twisting my napkin in my lap to displace my unease when dinner finally arrived.  
My food was wonderful; Mary was right about the filet minion. The silence that fell among people eating was broken when Holmes announced, "I suppose you should tell her Watson, all the trials that come with being my assistant."

Watson sighed and put down his knife and fork, "I was never your assistant." He briefly turned to me, "Not that there is anything wrong with that," he added quickly. "I simply aided in your investigations. And, I think you have made a wonderful choice in a partner, if I do say so myself," the doctor used his napkin to dab at his neat mustache.

"Do you think she can handle it? We did get into a tight spot now and then." Holmes folded his hands in front of his stomach.

"I think she is more than capable of handling whatever you may throw at her." Watson smiled at me and Mary moved to place her hand over his.

"Thank you Dr. Watson. It's nice to know someone has faith in my potential." I felt very grateful indeed.

"How do you plan to go about training for your position?" Holmes turned to me and finally looked me in the eye.

"I should think my employer would do his job and train me."

"I must first know what skills you possess." Holmes’ dark eyes bored into mine. 

"I was not aware this was an interview. I was under the impression that we were celebrating my success. Don't you think you should have mentioned something important such as knowing whether or not I could handle being your assistant before you promised me the job?"

"I never remember promising you anything." His gaze was unflinching. I got the feeling he was deliberately looking into my eyes, almost avoiding having to look elsewhere. Was he trying to intimidate me?

"If you don't want me to work for you just say so."

Watson and Mary watched our verbal sparring as if it were a tennis game, their eyes looking at him, then me, and back again. I was growing angrier by the second. What on earth was he doing?

I was on the verge of telling him exactly where he could go and what he could to with himself once he got there, when a woman's scream echoed across the dining hall. A matronly woman of about sixty was standing up at her table, shrieking, her hands flapping all about. The feathers in her hair bobbed around as she turned this way and that, obtaining the attention of everyone in the restaurant.

Watson asked rhetorically glancing in her direction, "What the devil is going on?"

Holmes dabbed his mouth with his napkin, then added calmly, "The game is afoot."

Turning to me, his eyes much brighter than I had seen them all evening, he asked, "How do you feel about finding a jewel thief as your first case?"


End file.
